The Warrior and The Dragon
by kumar LaVoixDuSud
Summary: Murtagh's early years, from the day of his coming to Urû'baen until the day he became a Dragon Rider. His connection with the other heroes of the story, Selena, Tornac, Eragon, Ajihad, Nasuada, the Twins, the King and of course Thorn. Events that hardly, or not at all, mentioned in the books.
1. The Astrologist and The King

**Disclaimer :** I do not own any hero of the Inheritance Cycle.

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**A/N :** This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To **Restrained Freedom** for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

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On the highest tower of Urû'baen's citadel there is a forbidden room, where a lonely man sits and watches the stars at nights. He marvels at the miracles of the sky, how the constellations bring order, by dividing it into smaller segments, how they affect the lives of mortals.

**The Astrologist and The King.**

The man leaned over his ancient celestial map, spread open on the desk and examined it for the umpteenth time with critical eye. Things that were, things that are and things that would be, all were written in here, on the stars. The obscure destiny of kings and their subjects, of nobles and commoners, of valiant and cowardly, of rich and poor, all could be read, all could be revealed to him. He was the _one_ who could bring into light the mysteries of the stars, the conspiracies of constellations, the fates of mortals.

With his dividers he measured the distance between two planets and using a triangle he calculated and noted something on a piece of parchment.

The man was aged, with a dry, wrinkled, angular face and thin lips, pulled in a straight line, between his crooked nose and his hard jaw.

'His Majesty won't like it. He won't like it at all,' he murmured and his shoulders tightened with anxiety.

Changing his position around the table and facing his map from another angle, he busied himself to calculate the same issue, trying to find a solution to his problem but, as much as he tried, it seemed that the result was exactly the same.

'No, he won't like it, but I have to inform him.'

He looked again at his astrological map, the same one he had inherited from his father, as he too had accepted the same heirloom from his ancestors, all the same, as back as the family members could recall.

It is said that this particular map, of an elfin construction, had served the ancient kings of the realm, predicting times of war, times of peace and revolutions. Providing information given from the Gods above about births, deaths, dethronments. Even during the millennium peace, imposed by the Riders, the map was useful to the old kings, same as were the man's ancestors, same as was he, himself.

Because, maybe the King was one of them, the powerful Riders, maybe he had conquered dominion, magic and immortality but, as all kings were, he was suspicious and he superstitiously liked to be informed, about the changes of the world. _His_ world.

And, in the astrologist's opinion, he did well to be cautious. The king could be immortal, but not invulnerable.

The old man sighed, letting his shoulders relax a bit. About a month ago, he had noticed this little sign on his celestial map, no doubt a magical sign. This little shadow, trying to establish its existence. It had started as a tiny dot and for three days now it was getting bigger and bigger, the size of the nail of his little finger.

'The King …' he nodded. 'He has to know.'

The astrologist wrapped up his map with utmost care, placed it on a leather cylinder decorated with silver carvings, locked his quarters to discourage any potential intruder, and left.

At this time of the day one could find his Majesty in his throne room, granting audience … this was another matter. There were many who waited outside the royal doors. Too many, for the man's opinion, to be accepted. Arrogant nobles and gracious ladies, haughty generals and opulent merchants.

As he walked past them all and, ignoring their murmurs and protests, came in front, the two fully armored guards crossed their spears stopping his rush.

'I have to see the King.'

'His Majesty is otherwise occupied.'

This was not much of a surprise. However, he knew by past experience that the doors of the King were never closed to him.

'This is very important.'

The guards glanced at each other. It was their duty to keep outside any obtrusive person who would like to disturb the King with business of their own. But if it was about something really important and they refused entrance, neither one would like to face the King's wrath later. They withdrew their weapons and one of them opened the heavy doors a little and stepped aside.

'His Majesty is holding a meeting with his two new magicians' he informed him. Was there a well hidden hint of disgust in his voice?

The astrologist lifted an eyebrow and entered the hall.

They were there, those two repulsive young men, with their obnoxious appearance and their depraved manners. He didn't like them at all and he was not the only one. A few weeks ago they had appeared in the palace, both of them, with their gaunt forms, their bald heads and their evil glares, and they had offered their services to his Majesty the King. And they had been accepted. They had not offered any name, if they had one. They were known as the Twins. The greatest magicians of all in the realm! At least that was what they alleged to be.

As soon as both of them became aware of his presence, they turned to look at him, their two bald heads united. Four, dark, impenetrable eyes pierced his core.

'Your Majesty,' he bowed with respect in front of the King and stayed there, waiting for the permission to speak more.

The man on the throne stood, large, broad shouldered, his skin the color of tarnished bronze, his gaze fixed on the leather cylinder in the astrologist's hands.

'You have something for me.' It was a statement not a question, his voice low, rich, and commanding. He waved for the Twins to wait at the outer chamber.

'My King, another one has appeared' the astrologist said, as soon as they were left alone. He took the map out of its case with the greatest care and spread it open on the table in front of the King's presence. 'Another shadow.' With his index finger he indicated the place in the universe where the phenomenon had been presented.

The King leaned above the map. _There_ was indeed the said shadow, on the constellation representing the 'Dragon'. A twin shadow of the other, the one which had appeared about three years ago, on the constellation of the 'Warrior'.

For a little while he examined the painted signs representing the constellations, coming from distant millennia. The colour had faded but the shapes were fairly distinct. The 'Dragon', represented by a giant, winged snake, curled twice, thrice and devouring its tail, in the part of the eyes two painted flames. And the 'Warrior', represented by a man astride, his legs melting, becoming one with his galloping horse's body, his muscular hands holding a longbow, stretching an arrow ready to strike.

'The Warrior and the Dragon' the King whispered.

He crossed his hands behind his back and began pacing up and down into the throne hall for a long while. His back was rigid and his gaze obscure. He turned again to his astrologist, piercing him with his dark eyes for a moment.

'Can you tell where?'

'No, my Lord. But it is not as close as the other. The first one is about to come closer. Soon it will be here. And you, my King, will be the one to bring him into your dome.'

'Him? …'

The up and down started again. The astrologist had just implied that the shadows represented two persons. But what else could it be? The King had suspected it himself. For over three years now he had used all his magical powers to investigate the first one. But the shadow, the Warrior, had kept its secrets sealed. And now there was another one? First … a child and now … an infant.

'It is auspicious to bring the one here' the old man said. 'You can keep an eye on him.'

'The Warrior …' the King whispered again, '…_and_ the Dragon.'

He sat on his throne, gripping the side carvings where his hands usually rested.

'Bad news … bad news is coming. I have a premonition.'

The astrologist gathered his precious map from the table and placed it again in its safe, cylindrical case.

'This cannot threaten your reign, your Majesty, as long as the shadows remain separated. It is written on the stars, on the planet representing your dominance. _They must be kept separated_.' The old man bowed to him. 'I'll keep my eyes fixed on them, day and night. And if …'

The king stopped him, raising his finger. Commotion, voices speaking loudly and exclamations were heard from outside. A woman shrieked.

'It is here!' the King stated and stood stiff. 'The bad news.'

The doors to the throne room opened widely, one of the guards rushed inside, a frightened look in his eyes.

'Your Majesty! …' the man cried. 'It's Lord Morzan … Your Majesty … He is dead! They are bringing in his body!'

The old man, holding his precious map tightly on his chest, withdrew behind a column and from there, half-hidden among the shadows, he watched the beginning of the events that were destined to change the future of Alagaësia.

Six men, all dressed in armor, entered the throne room, holding horizontally placed shields on their shoulders, creating a makeshift bed. On this bed was lying the blood-covered body of a man. His clothes were torn, his chest open, his long, dark hair hanged dirty, matted, blood-knotted.

The soldiers, under the command of their captain, brought the body in front of the King and placed it before the footing of his throne. Behind them courtiers, guards, servants entered the throne room, everyone throwing terrified glances at his Majesty and around. A dead silence followed the previous commotion, occasionally disturbed by a choked whisper or a sigh.

Morzan, the notorious for his rages Rider, was lying before them, in the throne room of Urû'baen, in front of the King _he_ once helped steal a newborn Dragon, destroy the Riders, gain the power and control, and create a centennial reign.

The dead man's face was stained with dried blood. A long, ugly gash on his right cheek marred his once handsome face. His eyes were closed, but his mouth gaped open, as if he was about to stand and start raging against all the bystanders, against his killers.

But, as the dead could obviously not do such a thing, there was still the King, who, with a single word could send everyone to oblivion.

'Who did this?' King's voice was cold, like ice.

The captain of the squad took a step forward and bowed.

'Your Majesty, we do not know yet. We investigate and, as soon as we find ….'

Gesturing, the King cut short the man's talking.

'Where is his sword? Where is Zar'roc?'

'My Lord … the killer stole it from the fallen body. His Dragon … is dead too.' So spoke the captain and, not willing to be the victim of the king's rage for the bad news he had carried, he stepped aside.

Another silence followed, frozen as the ice in the middle of a forest in winter.

The King was gazing at the body in front of his feet. The unfathomable look in his eyes would not reveal his innermost thoughts. Everyone else in the throne room was waiting with bated breaths. His rage was about to burst. In fact, it was already late.

But it didn't.

One by one, he descended the stairs of the dais under his throne. He fixed his eyes on the captain of the squad and nodded at him to approach. The man knelt before him.

'Command me, your Majesty!' He was a tall, rough man, in his early thirties. Duty was the cause of his existence.

'Take your men and go to Lord Morzan's castle. Carry the news of his death and bring here, to me, the woman Selena and her son. Now!'

The captain stood, always ready to obey.

The astrologist shook his head. The events had started to take their turns.

'… the Warrior …', he whispered, '… he is coming!'

'Wait!' The King's voice was cold but its tone held no wrath. The captain, having started for the doors with his men, returned in front of the throne and knelt again in the presence of his monarch.

'To approach and enter the castle, strong magic is needed' the King stated. He looked towards the Twins. 'You two! You will accompany the soldiers but your powers will not be enough. I shall give you words to use. You leave tomorrow, at the third hour. Now go! All of you! Out!'

The astrologist watched the magicians, courtiers, soldiers, the guards and servants, one by one abandon the hall with bowed heads. They bypassed the body of Morzan with frightened looks in their eyes. Even dead, the man terrified them.

He was the last one to leave. Before the doors to the throne room closed behind him, he turned for an instant and took a glimpse of the interior. And then, with astonishment he saw, _him_, Galbatorix, the great King of Alagaësia, the powerful overlord of the realm, _he_ who was answering to none, collapse on his knees before the blood-covered, dead body of the fallen Rider. And then, the doors closed and he saw no more.

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**A/N :** Your reviews will be my support. Otherwise, I will be unable to write a story like this one. With my limited english and without your support, I will not make it. So, please, review.


	2. The Mother and The Son

**Disclaimer :** I do not own any hero of the Inheritance Cycle.

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**A/N :** This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To **Restrained Freedom** for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

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In a high and mighty castle there is a lonely child who sits and watches from the window of his room the outside, forbidden world. He seeks his mother's coming and craves for her tenderness, although he doesn't know that this will be their last time together. Strength, mightiness and power mark his future, but even the strongest, fearless and most powerful man once was a helpless infant and a weak child.

**The Mother and The Son****.**

For quite some time the child had occupied his usual position, the wide sill of the window in his chamber. During the last six months, every morning, afternoon and sometimes even at night, he would climb on this sill and with hopeful eye he would watch the cart road leading to the castle, waiting for _her_ to be back.

When he started this habit of his, Nanny was angry. She scolded him many times for just sitting there, doing nothing and letting the most useful hours of his days pass into laziness and idly. So did the Teacher, who had already started to teach him how to write his letters and how to read a few of the books from the enormous bookcase of the castle.

But, as Nanny was most of the time angry against him, and the Teacher seemed never to be happy with anyone or anything he paid them not the least bit of attention.

And, over time, they got used to this situation, not only Nanny and the Teacher but all the other staff in the castle. Servants, maids, cooks and the rest, from the top retainer to the last stable boy, all of them got accustomed to seeing the lonely child climb onto the windowsill of his room and watch the road, the distant fields, the lanes among them, waiting and waiting …

'She should never have told him she would be back. If the Mistress had not promised him, he would have forgotten her by now.' It was this that Nanny used to complain about, insisting that during all her Mistress' previous visits the child had never shown such anxiety and worry. And as nobody ever knew her whereabouts and her time of return, she should have kissed her son goodbye and just leave, allowing them to do their tasks.

But the Teacher had another opinion.

'The boy is an intelligent child, and as he is getting older, it is doubtful that he could possibly forget her. It is natural for a child to seek his mother.'

To that, Nanny used to state nothing, not willing to argue with the Teacher – an educated man, who knew how to read and write. She would just shake her head and murmur that the boy was hardly three years of age that she, herself, was the one to raise him that he had barely known his mother that his own father had once tried to ... God forbid!

Nanny might not be particularly fond of Morzan's child since this boy was the reason she had been deprived of her baby-daughter for about three years, but she detested the mistreatment of any child, and this one had been born under an unlucky star.

The woman was obliged to live in the castle, tied with strong magic bonds there, while her little girl was left behind, being raised by her sister in a nearby village. Soon after his son's birth, Morzan had forced her in his castle and service because, having had a baby herself, she was with plenty of milk in her breasts. But the Master had compensated by paying her in gold, something very important for her family's survival.

She might not have been very fond of the boy, but she had fed him with her milk, she had held him in her arms, she had cured him during childhood illnesses, she was taking good care of him. So, in time, a kind of a relation had been established between them. She was proud of herself, having done her duty to her Master and Mistress, he had become accustomed to her caring for him.

And the boy in her charge was a malleable kind of child. He was healthy, he was never asked or demanded anything, he would eat and drink whatever he was offered, he was mostly silent. His usual daily activities were either his books or the toys in his chamber, or a few rare rambles when he was allowed in the courtyard, always under the supervision of an adult.

But when the Master was in the castle, or during his mother's rare visits, everything changed. The silent child held more spirit, he was eager to do things he otherwise never used to do, and he wanted to spend all the hours of the day under the presence and care of his mother. And during one of their last visits to the castle the Lord, under one of his many drunken rages, had thrown his sword at his own son, as he had run by. The child was lucky that there was a healer nearby, and he had kept him from dying. But a long, wide, knotted scar had remained on his tiny back, marking his little body from the right shoulder to the left hip.

Nanny knew very well how much pain the boy endured on an everyday basis because of this mistreatment. When the weather was cold or rainy or just changing, she watched him purse his little lips and close tightly his dark, brown eyes, imprisoning the pain to his core. And, sometimes, even the slightest excess of activity had the same result on him. The healer had assured her that in time, this ordeal would cease, eventually the nerves of his back would be cured, but for now ... And additionally, the child had been marked for life.

And it was less than two weeks ago when, during one of this pain attacks, she had found him lying on the floor of his room gasping, his fists clenched tightly on his eyes. But he didn't cry. He would never cry, and for that, Nanny was grateful. She was obliged to raise or cure his body, not his emotions.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Nanny entered the boy's chamber, finding him seated cross legged at his usual place, the sill of his window.

'Child, I've called you, but you haven't answered. Your Teacher has waited for you in the study room all afternoon and …'

She watched the child tense on the sill, looking out of the window with wide open eyes, then in an instant he jumped down and started running to the exit, then again returned to have a better look. Finally, he rushed out of the room, despite her trying to catch him, and he flew down the wide, marble stairs, shouting.

'… coming … coming … coming!'

Halfway down the stairs, he almost fell on a maid who was carrying a pile of linen upstairs.

'Young master, watch your step!' the girl protested annoyed, for the boy did something he never used to do. He paid her no attention, as if he hadn't seen her.

'Mommy, mommy! She is coming!... Coming!'

On the ground floor he stumbled onto the Teacher, the man with a permanent, sour expression of disapproval on his face. He bypassed him, hurriedly making for the exit but the Teacher managed to stop him, grabbing him from the collar of his tunic.

'Young man, where do you think you are going?'

'Let go of me!' the child protested. 'Mommy is coming!' and he tried hard to rush to the front door.

From the top of the stairs Nanny saw the Teacher restraining the boy, as the other servants and maids were gathering, attracted by the fuss.

The woman returned to the child's room and glanced out the window. In the dusk, falling across the outskirts of the forest, she noticed a woman's form, trudging down on the distant road. The woman was far enough still to be recognized but she could not be a supplier from the village. Nanny was sure of this because she carried no basket or something. The stranger was coming empty-handed. Could it be? Her Mistress, returning on foot and alone?

Downstairs the commotion grew louder. The child was practically shrieking and the Teacher's voice stood out from all the others, now scolding him for good. Nanny decided that time had come for her to take over. But before she left the room, she saw the woman sitting exhausted on a nearby log, midway to the castle. Whoever she might be, her Mistress or someone else, she had to make it on her own. The staff and she, herself were all bound by magic; none could go out to help her.

Nanny descended and, through all the gathered servants, she reached the centre of the racket.

'Easy, child, you're creating too much noise for nothing.' The boy seeing her, managed to escape his Teacher's hands, and grabbed her from her starched, white apron.

'Mommy is coming! Let me out Nanny, let me go to her! Please, Nanny, please! I'll be good, I promise! I'll no more keep you away from your baby. Please!'

It was obvious that the child was in hysterical condition. She knelt before him, holding him tightly from his small shoulders.

'If the Mistress is coming, then she will be here soon; do you want your mother to see you like this? Upset and angry?'

Those words seemed to calm him a bit. Nanny stood and tried to lead the child to a nearby room, but he refused to leave the main entrance. Nevertheless, he stood still, eyes fixed on the great, double, oaken doors, his fists clenched tightly.

Nanny knew very well that no one – except Master himself and Mistress – could get inside the castle. It wasn't for any guard, nor for the massive steel doors, but for the strong, magic spells that obstructed and prevented strangers from crossing the outer gates into the yard.

A few minutes passed, and then another few. For the moment, the child stood in a silent alarm and, as Nanny had managed to calm him, nobody else dared to speak a word around them. And within this ambivalent truce, none thought to open the doors leading from the outer yard to the main entrance of the hall, or go and look outside.

The heavy doors prevented them from hearing the noise of light footsteps, ascending the marble stairs outside. The hinges creaked, as the doors opened widely, and that was what informed them all of the stranger's presence. And, suddenly, there she stood in the entrance. Her rich clothes were worn, the hem of her skirts was drenched and muddy, her abundant hair hung loose, matted on her back. Her always tender cheeks looked wilted, her dark brown, once bright eyes as if they had lost their light. But she was smiling.

He didn't notice her once cute dimples, already turning to wrinkles and the circles under her tired eyes, nor her sunken, pale cheeks or her hunched form.

She opened her arms to hold him, and as he jumped onto her and hanged over her with both his hands and legs, his whole being became a single word.

'Mommy!'

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The mother was lying on a daybed on the porch of the first floor, with the afternoon sun frolicking on her loose hair. The boy, climbed on her lap, had long since fallen asleep, his cheek resting on her chest, listening to her heart beats, her hand touching slightly his knotted scar over his shirt. She smiled, looking at the light burden on her bosom, and softly kissed his brown, silken hair. She felt relieved that she was there, with him, after so much time they had been separated. She leaned forward, touching his neck with her lips and breathed deeply his childish odor, letting the scent fill her lungs. She had missed this. All this long time she had spent away, as well as all the other, previous times, this was the one thing she missed the most. Since the first moment she had brought him to life and held him in her arms, his scent fascinated her. Even though she was not allowed with him most of the time, this little being, this child had changed her life, her heart and mind, her whole existence. He was hers. A piece of her body, a part of her soul.

She had been deprived of him for so many months and she was feeling guilty about it. It was not Morzan's fault this time, it was her own mistakes, her own twisted heart, who had loved a man, a stranger, more than her own son. Every time she looked back at her life, she could see only mistakes. The last one, the worst of all. She had abandoned her second son, as she had done with her first.

But what was done was done, she could not change the past, neither her wrong decisions, nor her deeds. As for the last one, she was convinced she had chosen the best solution. The baby would live a secure life with her brother. Her sister-in-law was a good woman who would take good care of him.

She tried to forget about this second baby, and concentrated to the child on her lap. She kissed again his soft hair, thus waking him up. The boy smiled and yawned, rubbing his eyes with his small fists.

'Mommy?'

'Yes, my angel?'

'You didn't tell me about the forest …'

'I was about to tell you, but you fell asleep.'

'Tell me again, mommy!'

And she told him. She told him about the deep, wide forest with its enormous trees. About the eerie sounds, heard during the dark, moonless nights, coming out of the haze. About the leaves of the maple tree, turning golden during the end of the summer – the boy was born at the end of the summer and was always fascinated by the red-golden maple leaves. She told him about the Lady Elf, who lives in the heart of a giant tree and dominates the whole forest around. And he marveled at her stories and pleaded with her to sing for him the old song she used to sing him good-night, although it was early in the afternoon. And when he persuaded her to do so, he united his childish, crystal voice with hers, and they sang together, this song and then another and one more.

This was the sixth day since the mother's returning to the castle. She had rested, bathed, eaten, slept and had any luxury the mansion could provide. She should have recovered by now. But she hadn't. She was feeling weak, her arms and legs heavy, a slight morning fever, turning more serious at nights, devouring her minimal residual strength. And it was the pain too, a constant, torturing pain inside her womb. She could only make it from her bed to this sunbathed couch and back to her bed again.

She rejected the thought of sending for a healer because she wouldn't let anyone find out that the cause of her debility was her recent childbirth. Same as, back at her brother's, she had refused the help of a midwife – who would very possibly realize that this childbirth was not her first, and had delivered the baby only with Marian's help. Could this be the cause of her sickness? A puerperal fever maybe? Or was it the fact that she had lost all she loved and hoped for? This man, his baby, her dreams for a better life … She was desperate … heartbroken … and … were all these symptoms a warning for her upcoming death? So soon … so young …

'Mommy?'

The child on her lap attracted her attention from her morbid thoughts. Her son was all that was left to her. But for how long? When Morzan came back, he would separate them again. She had no choice in the matter. If she could, she would have taken him with her. But the child was bonded by strong magic in this cursed castle, like all the servants. Only a few trusted by Morzan could enter, and they had gone away with him.

'Yes, my angel?'

'Can we go for a walk down, in the yard?' She smiled bitterly.

'No, dear. I'm still so tired, perhaps tomorrow.' The child frowned.

'At least, can we go to my room and play there with my toys?'

This was definitely something they could do.

Later that night, they both fell asleep, embraced on the floor of the boy's room, their mattress the soft carpet. Nanny's plump form appeared in the small hours and lifted the child to his bed, waking her Mistress to go to hers. In the next few hours the sun would rise, and the fever would make its strongest attack.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

'Child, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay in your room?'

Nanny was angry. She, along with some other maids, was taking care of her Mistress, while the last one was lying febrile in her bed. It was more than a week she had fallen out with a tenacious fever and she was growing steadily worse. What was more, she had refused the help of a healer – if one could be found in the nearby villages – pretending that she was unable to use words which would permit a servant to go out of the castle and come back with the healer. And the maids, servants and Nanny herself could only offer worthless help and comfort to her serious state.

Nanny was angry because the child, in spite of her exhortation and advice, refused to remain in his own room but he used to spend every hour of his days and nights in his mother's. There wasn't any indication that this illness was contagious but without the help of a healer, who could possibly know? And if the boy was affected, the Master would kill them all.

'I want to be with mommy!' said the boy with an insolent tone in his voice and stubbornly escaped her and climbed on her Mistress' bed, grabbing her arm firmly and finding tolerance by her side.

The woman was half conscious most of the time but it seemed that the boy's presence revived her, even for a while.

'Let him stay … Nanny … please …' she murmured and took hold of the child.

'As you wish, madam.' Nanny curtsied and got out of the room offended, leaving the maid to look after mother and son. If the Master was here …. But if he was here he would have probably cured her Mistress by now. And as she passed the long corridor, making for the kitchens, her worry returned. If the Mistress died … if the child in her charge was affected too…

The boy relaxed in his mother's embrace. He pressed his little body on hers and felt her high temperature through his tunic and shirt. Mommy's body was practically burning hot. He felt worried. Since that night mommy had fallen asleep on the floor of his chamber, she hadn't made it to get out of her bed. In the beginning, she had reassured him that the next day she would be better, that the day after they would visit their beloved place again, the couch on the sunbathed porch, and the next one they would go for a walk in the yard. But the days had just passed the one after the other and mommy wasn't any better.

Not standing her overheated body against his own, the boy sat cross-legged by her side and leaning on top of her, watched her feverish face. Her cheeks held a rosy colour – wasn't this an omen of recovery? The maid changed the wet towel on her brow with a new, cool one. Mommy couldn't focus on him all the time but now she opened her eyes and smiled.

'My angel …'

She lifted her palm exhausted, and cupped his cheek with tenderness. She couldn't sing to him anymore – her sharp, short breaths came out with difficulty – so he decided to entertain her himself.

First she told her the story he had recently read with the help of the Teacher. The story of a boy like himself who, with the company of his dog and a gift of three wishes, travelled all over the world before he returned to his home again. Then, he sang her their song and she seemed relaxed and smiled at him again. And finally, he talked about his toys, about some strange tiny soldiers, who had the bad habit of escaping from their box, and strolling around his room at nights, fighting one another.

At that moment, mommy was calm and asleep, night had fallen outside the window, he had settled down near her to rest and his eyes were already closing. But in a short while, mommy was restless and he sat again and watched her. She had started speaking strange words, like _eegon_, and he couldn't make out what she wanted. The maid had fallen asleep on a chair, so he could not ask her if she had understood. But whatever this strange thing might be, he would find out tomorrow. He would ask mommy to tell him about it and he would bring it to her, so she would be happy.

He wanted to calm her again and he lay down by her side and held her tightly. He did not realise how time passed, but suddenly the room was filled with people and a commotion was occurring around him. A maid lifted his little body from his mother's bed and led him to his room.

'It is time for you to sleep, young master. Please stay in here.'

The maid put him in his bed and left. He was dizzy and tired, but the previous ado left him suspicious and puzzled. As soon as the girl exited, he followed her at a distance in the corridor and through the half opened door of his mother's room, he took a peek inside.

He couldn't see her on the bed because it seemed like all the women of the castle were standing around it, some of them talking and arguing, some others strolling around the room, and others doing curious things. When a couple of them exited in a hurry and another entered with a pack of towels in her arms, he sneaked inside and secretly crept under her bed.

Hidden down there, he watched during the night the to and fros of their feet, their murmurs, as others were involved with mommy and others with various, nonsensical things. Nanny was there too, among them. He heard her giving orders to the maids and noticed the hem of her long, always starched, white apron near the bed. For a moment he saw a man's boots approaching, and recognized the voice of the retainer. What was he doing in mommy's bedroom? What was everyone else doing?

What seemed like hours passed. He dozed on the floor and suddenly a maid shrieked, muffled instantly by the others. He heard Nanny scolding the girl. Another one was crying softly. He felt a chill to his core. All these people would be an annoyance to mommy. They had sent him away and they came in here doing … what?

With wide open eyes, he watched the to and fros starting once again. Two or three more men entered for a while and then left again. So did the maids, one after the other. Nanny and a couple of girls stayed for a little longer, murmuring to each other things he could not understand, and suddenly even this small commotion stopped abruptly. The room was empty.

He dared come out of his hiding place and immediately he looked at _her_. Mommy was sleeping quietly. He climbed onto the bed to have a better look. Curious thing, her face was covered with a silken veil. Wouldn't this prevent her already short breath? He leaned on her and lifted the veil revealing her face. She was calm and didn't hold this rosy look any more. He touched her cheek and it was cooler. The fever was gone!

Not wanting to disturb her, he lay quietly by her side and held her softly, kissing her shoulder. Tomorrow mommy would be all right. She could be out of bed and sit with him on the couch of the porch, they would possibly go for a walk in the yard, and maybe, in a few days, in the nearby forest. He smiled happily. He was content.

When he opened his eyes again, the soft light of dawn filled the room. He sat abruptly and looked at mommy. She was so serene, she hadn't moved at all.

'Mommy?' He touched her cheek slightly with his little palm. She was cold now, perhaps she needed a blanket. He looked around not finding something to cover her.

'Mommy, are you feeling cold?' He asked with care, but he received no answer.

'Shall we go out today? Shall we sit again under the sun together? This will warm you.' Now his voice was filled with hope. But she remained silent.

He nudged her shoulder and when nothing occurred, he shoved her harder.

'Mommy … mommy!'

'Child! Why are you here?' Nanny's upset voice made him jolt. She was standing astounded at the entrance of the room. He jumped off the bed and approached her.

'Nanny, mommy is not talking to me … ', there was a simultaneously sad and scared look on his childish face. She sighed and held both his small shoulders.

'I know child, she cannot talk to you.'

'Will she talk to me tomorrow?' The child looked her straight in the eye, a hopeful tone in his voice.

She knew very well that he was begging for a consolation, but she could not offer one.

'I'm sorry, child, she'll never talk to you again.'

'Never? Why? Is it because I've done something wrong?' He seemed upset now.

Nanny knelt before him, her face serious, dejected.

'You must understand, young one, your mother is dead.' The hue of her voice had turned as tender as possible. The child looked puzzled.

'What does _dead_ mean, Nanny?'

The woman swallowed with earnest patience. The child might have hardly known his mother, but she was _his_ mother after all.

'It means that your mother will never breathe again, never eat, drink of talk again. Her life has ended and because nobody can do something about it, you have to accept it.'

The child gazed at her speechless for a while, with wide open eyes.

'Like the bird on the sill?' Last winter, one morning, the child had found a bird on the sill of his window. At the beginning he thought that it was just frozen and dizzy, so he had picked it up inside, put it under his quilt and tried hard to revive it. When it was obvious that the bird was dead, Nanny took it and threw it into the rubbish heap. In the beginning the child had protested, but when he understood he could do nothing against Nanny's will, he had followed her and had spent all his afternoon, watching the rubbish barrel, in case the bird lived.

'Yes, child. Like that bird.'

The words were not hard spoken, or with an intention to hurt him, but their downright meaning caused a cold feeling inside him. He let his hands and head hung idle, his gaze fixed at the tips of his shoes. Mommy was never going to talk to him again, neither smile nor hold him in her arms and kiss him. She would never sing to him goodnight, she was never even supposed to come back to see him. Never … never … never … The repetition of this word caused him more numbness, and he would have collapsed, if Nanny hadn't held him in her arms.

'Come, child, we must get ready for the funeral.'

'What is a funeral, Nanny?' He followed her obediently, leaning dazed on her side, as her hand supportively held his shoulder, leading him to his chamber. The strange cold feeling was already descending from his chest to his stomach.

'We will pay our last respects to our Mistress, and you will tell your last goodbye to your mother.'

Last … last … last … The word hammered at his temples as he leaned forward and vomited pure bile. His knees gave in and he knelt on the cold marble floor of the corridor. He would not remember clearly what happened next but, in a haze, Nanny took him to his room and took care of him, as a maid was tasked to clean the mess.

_Many years later, when, as an adult, he would return to the deserted castle, in front of the entrance of his mother's room, he would notice on the worn, blackened floor the whitened stain of this old weakness. What the acidic fluids of his stomach, caused by this early pain, had left on the marble._

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Hours later, mommy was lying on a makeshift bed in the middle of the great hall of the castle. She was beautifully dressed in silken dresses, trimmed with golden lace and pearls. Her hair, plaited in two long braids, fastened with silver brooches, framed her pale face. It was the middle of the spring and the flowers she so much loved decorated her pillow. In her hands she was holding a bundle of roses.

Most staff of the castle were present, standing around the room, dressed in mourning outfits and having sad looks on their faces. He noticed a couple of maids, with tears in their eyes.

He was sitting alone on a chair, next to mommy's left shoulder, an empty chair – Master's chair – to her right. Father would be angry! He would drink, he would shout at everyone, he would rage …

He tried not to think about him and concentrated on her hands, holding the roses. He would prefer mommy to hold his hand and not the flowers, but Nanny had said he should not touch his mommy any more. Nanny had dressed him in dark garments, had combed his hair and using a black ribbon she had tied it at the base of his neck in a short pony-tail. And she had made him promise he would be calm and quiet because mommy would not like him to cause any trouble during her last day in the mansion. Her burial – whatever it might be – was about to take place in the afternoon, before sunset.

He shoved his hand inside his pocket, fumbling to find the folded piece of paper which he had hidden there earlier. With his poor handwriting, he had managed to sketch a letter for mommy. Now he was looking for an opportunity to hide this note someplace in her garments. Someplace, where mommy could find it and read it. Teacher had mentioned something about a long journey mommy had to go alone, and a place where she would meet important people, much more important than the King himself. And when Nanny had enumerated all those things mommy would never do again, she hadn't mentioned mommy couldn't read. So, if she had to go to this long journey alone, perhaps, if she would find his letter and read it, she would know how much he loved her. How much he cherished for every time, every moment they had spent together and she would not feel alone.

He looked around him, seeking an opportunity to pass his letter to her, his hand already starting for hers, but he saw many pairs of eyes fixed on him, so he drew back on his chair and stayed still.

In a short while, a young servant entered the hall, and with cautious steps he approached the top retainer and whispered to him for a few moments. The child noticed the old man nodding to a couple of others and all together left towards the exit. In a few minutes some other men followed with a couple of older women at their heels, leaving the rest inside. It was early in the afternoon and the oblique rays of the sun entering from the windows illuminated and warmed the frozen hall.

Outside the retainer watched with anticipation the road leading to the castle. He was sure that his Master – sensing the tragic event in his domain – would return and had tasked this young servant to watch the road from the outer walls of the castle and inform him.

'And isn't the Master among them?' he asked feeling sure about it. After all, this was not the usual way the Rider returned home. The retainer shaded his eyes with his palm, to look better into the distance.

'No, sir, I can tell a squad of empire soldiers and a couple of civilians.' The young man had a sharp eye. 'Magicians, by their robes, I would say.'

The servants watched the horsemen galloping on the dirt road, heading towards the castle, a cloud of dust rising from the hooves of their horses.

'If they have no orders by our Master, then they cannot enter.' Said the retainer, but he gathered the men by his side on the outer marble stairs, waiting for the squad.

The resounding gallop must have been heard inside, for in a while more men were added to the first group. A few older women followed timidly.

The riders, under the command of a captain, came to the front of the gates and there they stopped. The retainer felt a shiver in his spine, as he watched the two magicians come down of their horses, unite their heads, and begin to chant words of significant power. He saw the massive gates moving inwards and all the intruders entering the inner yard. With long strides the retainer approached the captain of the squad as he dismounted and bowed to him.

'My Lord, I presume you have orders for me, from my Master.'

The captain threw him one haughty glance.

'Your master is dead. I follow the King's orders.' He paused for a moment, examining the impression his words caused to the servants. The men shivered, looking to one another, a woman gasped, a few murmurs were heard.

'Bring the woman named Selena in front of me.' The captain demanded with hard voice. 'And her son!'

The retainer stiffened.

'I'm sorry Lord, my Mistress died last night. Her funeral is arranged on this afternoon.'

'Your … what?'

In an instant the captain lost all his bravado. The fearsome, mighty Morzan married? And with a son? He had never heard about it. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously; maybe this servant was lying to him for some reason. But then again, he noticed the mourning garments, the sullen, dismal glances and understood. He looked around him and saw the two magicians unite their bald heads once again, probably communicating with each other. Obviously the news made them pay extra attention to these new facts. The captain frowned. Those two did their best to cause disgusting feelings to whoever they associated with. He hoped never to meet them again after this mission.

'I want to see this!' he demanded, turning towards the retainer.

As the gathered servants stepped aside, the retainer led the captain inside the hall, where the body of his Mistress was lying on her last bed. He stood in the entrance for a few moments, his eyes fixed first on the body of the woman, then on the tiny child, who gazed at him with astonishment. He didn't remove his helm which covered part of his face; he was not here to pay his respect to the dead. He was following the King's orders. He had to hurry, he was already late.

'Prepare the body of the woman and the child. They are both coming with me to Urû'baen.' He ordered in a loud voice.

On his words a fuss occurred in the hall. He saw the boy stand and turn towards a plump woman, all dressed in black, with a long white apron, who instantly came to him and held both his small shoulders protectively.

'Now!' the captain commanded with a decisive voice.

The retainer tried to protest.

'My Lord, everything is ready for the burial …'

'The King's orders!' the captain interrupted him. 'I presume you have a coffin ready? Or is there a crypt where you would place your Mistress?'

'No my Lord. No crypt. My Master had no such needs,' said the retainer, bowing to him again.

'Then I'll send two soldiers to the nearest village, to commandeer a cart for the woman's coffin.'

'It will not be necessary, my Lord,' the retainer said. 'You will find the cart that you need in the stables.'

'Good! The boy will ride my horse, in front of me,' stated the captain looking at the child, who had sought protection behind the woman's skirts; his voice turned more friendly. 'Woman! Prepare your young master. He is coming with me!'

The boy grabbed the woman's white apron and looked at her with panic.

'Nanny!'

She held him protectively.

'Be strong, child, you have to go with the soldiers. You will have to meet the King.'

'I want to be with mommy!'

'She will come along, child.'

Distressed, the boy saw four servants bring in a long, empty box and, as Nanny withdrew with him in a corner, they placed mommy inside it, her beautiful flowers scattered around the floor. Then they closed the box with mommy inside, put it on their shoulders and made for the exit.

'No! … Mommy! … No! Where are you taking her? … Mommy!' He tried to follow, but Nanny's hands stopped him.

'Easy, child …'

He escaped her grip and ran speedily towards the exit, trying to catch the servants. As he was passing by the captain, the man grasped the boy's tunic with a jolt of his hand to withhold him.

'Let me go to her!' the boy shrieked. 'Mommy … mommy!'

As he was struggling to escape, the soft material of the tunic was torn open, revealing his bare back. His scar was in plain sight for the captain to see it.

'Gods above! What is this?' He immobilized the child and stared at his wound with wide open eyes.

The Twin magicians uniting their heads once again and having evil grimaces on their faces watched the child with rising interest. The woman, called by the boy 'Nanny', came in front of the captain to claim him.

'Please, my Lord. He has just lost his mother, he is upset.'

The captain nodded and released the child, who sought refuge in her arms.

'Just prepare him for the journey.' He said to the woman.

As he made for the exit the retainer followed him.

'What will become of us?' He was already feeling relieved of the strong magic binding him to the castle.

'I have no orders for you. You had better stay here and wait,' he commanded.

The retainer looked around him. Obviously, all the other servants had already felt the magic bonds being relinquished, as he had himself. They were now free to go wherever they wanted, to do whatever they liked. Some of them had already run. In a few hours many others would do the same. He shrugged; his duty in here was over. Master and Mistress were dead and, in a short while, their child gone. He sighed. Morzan was not his Master anymore. He was free!

In less than an hour, the soldiers and the magicians were ready to depart. The child, dressed in travel clothing, was seated on the captain's stallion. Nanny held his hand to greet him for the last time.

'Be strong, child, now a new life begins for you,' she said and smiled briefly to him, as the captain encouraged the horse to a trot.

The woman was happy. She had felt the binding magic already being lifted off her. The aforementioned new life was for her and her family. Her little daughter was waiting in her sister's home, in the nearby village. Now she could go to her. Be with her. Show her all her love and care she has deprived her of over the previous three years because of the son of Morzan. She watched the men exiting the castle, captain and child at the head, then a couple of soldiers, the two magicians, the cart with the body and the rest of the squad. She smiled again, feeling joy overflowing her chest.

'My beloved baby, I am coming to you!' She whispered and hurried inside the castle to gather her belongings, under the questioning gaze of the retainer.

Just before reaching the exit of the castle the boy looked around him, staring at the yard, the buildings, the walls, the familiar faces of the servants for a last time. His heart was heavy, full of pain and sorrow. He was left alone, deserted, scared. Alone! Even the presence of the sour Teacher would be a preferable one now. Nanny had said that the life would begin for him, but what kind of life would this be? Away from the place he considered 'home', without mommy...

And at this moment he remembered the letter he had written for his mother. He shoved his hand in his pocket, but the piece of parchment wasn't there anymore. In all this commotion the letter was lost. Mommy would have to go on her long journey alone. He bit hard on his lips to prevent tears, as he turned to look at the cart which followed behind, but the captain straightened him on the saddle.

'Easy boy! It won't be a long journey. We'll be there at dusk.'

The moment they were passing the massive steel doors, the child looked upwards to the menacing iron bars and shivered. And this was the moment, when for the first time in his life, the son of Morzan exited the gates of his forbidden castle to face the outer world.

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**A/N :** Your reviews will be my reward. If there is something that you like in my story, I want to know it. If you don't like it, I want to know it too, so I can possibly fix it. After all I learn from my mistakes. :) So, please, review.


	3. The Friend and The Swordmaster (part I)

******Disclaimer :** I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.

* * *

**A****/****N :** This story is dedicated to **Restrained Freedom, **my favorite writer. But I think that he wouldn't mind, if I dedicate this particular chapter to a very special man, who has been _my_ Tornac. He found me when I was lost and taught me that freedom has its own price. To Père-Germain, who believes that none can cage an eagle.

_Père-Germain, l'aigle est libre et paie sa liberté au quotidien._

* * *

Behind Urû'baen's mighty walls, lives a young, caged eagle, who eagerly awaits for the chains of his cage to be broken. He craves for the day he will spread out his strong wings, and taste the freedom in the sky. He longs to survey the wide land with his fiery eye, to nest on the highest top of the world. But freedom has a price that always must be paid. Always!

**The Friend and The Swordmaster. **

_… __The flame was burning earnestly. It had already cycled the back left foot of the Lion and was slowly and steadily devouring it. The Lion's tail, already aflame, lashed weakly against his enemy, not managing to threaten him. With a firm grip on his stretched bow, the Warrior unleashed another flammable arrow, barely missing the Lion's body. From the opposite side of the universe the Dragon roared, his burning eyes turning brighter, his long tongue ejected, __launch__ing an incredible amount of flames, filling the space between …_

With a sweat drenched brow and chest, the King sat up on his bed, gasping. This nightmare dominated his sleep whenever he tried to close his eyes. After so many years of living and ruling, the King of Alagaësia had the least need of sleep; but the rare times he would have his rest, the Warrior was always there to threaten his essence. Let alone the Dragon. The King sprang off his bed and with determined movements put his garments on and approached a carved, wooden table in the middle of the chamber. But before even reaching it, a sudden, ferocious roar, much like the one in his dreams filled his mind.

_Shruikan! _The King felt the sudden need for destruction, influenced by the nightmare that filled his magic-bonded Dragon's whole being. _What do you want, o mighty one?_

The harsh roar was repeated, flooding the King's mind with pictures of burning fields and forests, of mangled bodies and shed blood, of destroyed villages and cities.

_These dreams!_ The voice thundered once again in his mind. _Burn! Destroy! Death, death! Put them all to death! _

At the same instant the King felt hard claws slashing at his back, and a mental stab causing him to grab the edges of the table to prevent falling.

_Kill, kill!_ The Dragon yelled in his mind.

_Go back to rest!_ The King commanded clenching his teeth, and as soon as he caught his breath again he voiced strong, black-magic words and the Dragon's true name compelling him to release him.

The Dragon's rage abated a little since his being filled with more pain than anger. _Galbatorix! _The Dragon groaned within his mind._ Bonded with you to endure! For ever! _And then the feeling subsided and the King stood again before the table, panting.

Determinedly, he gripped a silver jug filled with water and emptied it inside a matching basin which rested on the table, creating at the next moment a lazulitic werelight on its wooden top. He left the urn aside and stood stiff.

'_Draumr Kópa_!'

The next instant, the water in the basin swirled, and once the surface relaxed and became still like a silver mirror, the face of a sleeping youth was revealed. The King bent over the basin, watching him with interest.

'My Warrior …' he whispered sarcastically. 'Are you or are you not the one, son of Morzan?'

The face of the young man and his breath were calm. He had fallen into a deep sleep, his dark brown locks spread on his pillow, his lips slightly opened.

The King relaxed a bit from the previous nightmare and the mental attack of his Dragon. How could this _boy_ be the enemy, threatening to destroy him? The youth had lived for the previous twelve years in his court, had been raised by his most faithful servants, associated only with a few and trustworthy people. After the double loss of his parents, the King had brought him to the palace and arranged for his upbringing; the best of the rooms and servants, the best quality of his garments and meals, the best of the teachers. All these things rightfully belonged to the young noble he was. And not just any noble, but the son of a Rider.

And the young man had proved to be a temperate and undemanding one in his ways of living, but prolific in his mind and skills' improvement. Both were things the King approved of. He devoured the knowledge offered by his teachers and he was eager to study more and become even better. And the King had provided not only the scholars and the volumes of books from the rich library of the palace, but the appropriate weapon masters to train him in the best of the war arts. And the young one had evolved to be a very capable and promising fighter.

The King, wanting to favor him, bestowed occasionally valuable offerings, like the gray foal he had gifted him with on his last birthday, one of the best breeds in the country. Or the fine long bow, of a rare construction and strength and the white horn, bound with silver fittings, the year before. He either organized hunts, where the youth was given the opportunity to stay for a while away from the citadel and be inured to nature, or sent him to a short distant excursion with his most loyal guards. Other than these occasional exits, the youth was never permitted to go out of the castle unattended. And the son of Morzan, even so young, was one of the most capable riders, archers and hunters the King had ever seen, with the potential to become even better.

The king leaned over the basin and concentrated once again on the face of the sleeping youth. The lit candle on his bedside table illuminated him, pouring on his cheeks a pale sheen of light. Ever since he was a tiny child and had been brought to the palace, the King had instructed his servants to leave a light in his bedroom at night. And the boy had got accustomed to the night light and never questioned it, so the King was able to scry on him whenever he liked, day or night.

The monarch observed the face lines of the young man. He held resemblance to his mother, same colour of the eyes, same nose and cheekbones, same shape of his lips. He had inherited part of the woman's striking beauty.

Selena, Morzan's Black Hand, had been one of his most faithful servants. Even though there was a whole team established in her memory and after her appellation, the King had missed her service. Morzan had met her in one of the northern villages of the empire and they had travelled together for quite some time. Obviously, the village girl had fallen for him and the Rider had not missed the opportunity. He had enlisted her in his life and service. This sapling was the fruit of this relation.

His features may have resembled his mother's but when he moved and spoke, the King thought that it was Morzan himself there, returning from the grave. Especially his voice reminded him so much of his father's, at about the same age that the King sometimes felt that the years had turned back and he was still young, starting once again his great adventures with his lost friend and ally.

And the King had kept the boy's parentage mostly a secret, to protect his life. Morzan had hurt a lot of people in his long life and many would like to get revenge on his son. The King had other plans for the son of Morzan. Whether he was the mysterious 'Warrior' or not, he was going to serve his Majesty, in every way he would see fit.

The King ended the spell, and the surface of the water in the silver basin became once again wavy and empty. If the son of Morzan was the 'Warrior', then, who was the 'Dragon'?

The King exited his chambers, and gesturing at four out of the six fully armored guards who kept watch outside his doors to escort him, he started walking the dark, empty corridors of the castle at a brisk pace. Soon he ascended the narrow stairs to the tallest tower of the citadel and stood outside the blackened, oaken doors of his Astrologist's. Using an iron-clad fist, one of his guards banged heavily the doors thrice, before he opened them to let his King pass. Always awake at this hour of the night, the Astrologist stooped over the table with his map spread open on it. The room was dark and the only light, shining on the old man's face and leaving obscure the surrounding walls, was derived from the same map. Seeing the King, the Astrologist rose and then bowed respectfully to him.

'Your Majesty, I was expecting your visit.'

Leaving his guards outside the oaken doors, the King stepped inside and closed them behind him, his eyes fixed on the table. And there, in the middle of the darkened room of the highest tower, on the ancient astrological map, _there_ were standing one against the other, all his nightmares.

For so many years he had watched the two shadows growing, spreading around and covering, obscuring the constellations, represented by the 'Warrior' and the 'Dragon'. But lately, both shadows had begun to acquire a much brighter colour, resembling two luminous clouds. And presently, the diffuse nebulae had condensed into two shiny flames, the first one, the Warrior's, more glowing than the other.

With wary, narrowed eyes the King watched the Warrior's flame throwing flashes against the great, roaring Lion's constellation, the one symbolizing his own dominance. Could the son of Morzan be this flickering flame? And if he was indeed, how could it be possible for the boy to threaten him? _Him_, the powerful king, the strong fighter, the greatest magician ever existed, a Dragon Rider. _The_ Dragon Rider.

From the first moment he came to his palace, he had granted the boy all the care he deserved as the son of Morzan, as well as his protection. The King had kept the boy's existence a secret. The Captain who had brought him to Urû'baen and all the men of his squad had been obliged to swear oaths in the ancient language that they would never reveal anything to anyone about him. As for the Twin magicians the King had another mission for them. A few weeks after they had returned, he had ordered them to make contact with his enemies, gain their trust and spy on them.

However, all the indications were leading to the son of Morzan. The young man had been born about the same time the first shadow had made its appearance, he had come to the palace at the same time as with the approaching of the shadow, according to the indications of the map and his Astrologist's interpretation. The said shadow had begun to shine at about the same time that the son of Morzan had entered pubescence. And there was always the unanswered question. Who was the 'Dragon'?

With careful eyes the Astrologist watched the King frown at the map on his table. He was very well aware of the suspicions that had caused him to take extra precautions for his own protection, more powerful magical words. And the King might not have been convinced of the Warrior's identity yet, but he, himself was sure about him.

'My King,' the man's certain voice interrupted the King's doubtful thoughts 'those two cannot threaten you, I can assure you of it, as long as they remain separated.'

There had been many times, through all these years, the Astrologist had to reassure his King, but he always returned stubbornly to the same dangerous point, a point that the old man could sense, and disagree with. How could the 'Warrior' be useful to him? How could the 'Dragon' be?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The soft pre dawn light, coming from the open window fell on the youth's face, causing his eyelashes to tremble. He woke and sat up on his bed stretching and yawning. The gentle breeze of the last days of summer came along with the first sounds of the courtyard, the first cries of men, the first clang of the swords.

He hurriedly stood, put on his pants and boots and washed his hands and face into the basin, to clear away the remnants of sleep. The Swordmaster would be waiting for him; he wouldn't like to be late. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked for an instant at the silver framed mirror hung on the wall, the only luxury he permitted inside his room.

While growing up, he had instructed his servants to remove one by one all the luxurious items from his quarters, and allowed only fundamental comforts. He knew very well that the King himself welcomed such practices, as he had been brought up in the old ways of the Riders, who highly appreciated the knowledge and magic, but condemned luxurious amenities.

Everyone in the castle knew that the King was in possession of priceless treasures, which were guarded locked in his royal treasury. Most of them were valuable items of the old Kings and Queens; many others, donated by various nobles, to curry favor. But the King himself, never used any. Years ago, the young man had happened to find himself in the King's personal office and he had been taken aback by the monastic simplicity of the room.

Nevertheless, it was not for the King's favor he chose to be plain, but influenced by his Swordmaster's military austerity and the man's simple ways of living, he tried in every occasion to imitate him. Tornac was one of his teachers, his personal trainer, but in the years they had spent together a more special relationship had been established between them. Tornac was his mentor, his advisor, his trusted older friend who always would be there, to discuss any matter with him.

With a critical eye he examined his lean, well built form, the muscles having started to appear on his arms, chest and belly, some extra height, new hairs here and there. His body had already begun to change, the boy giving way to a young man. He turned and examined the scar which separated his back in two.

_Did you want me dead, Father?_

He clenched his right fist and shrugged several times, then stretched and windmilled his arm, so as to test the muscles of his back. He was lucky; he felt no pain today caused by the previous day's hard training. He put on his shirt and tunic, then sheathed his training sword and grabbed his dagger with the carved, silver hilt; the same dagger the King himself had given him the first day he came to Urû'baen, so many years ago. He still remembered that day very clearly.

_The King had stood upright before the dais of his throne and was looking at him with rising interest. The Captain who had brought him there, had instructed him to bend his knee and stay still. So had he done. But he couldn't help observing the monarch carefully with a similar interest himself. The King had approached, had raised him on his feet and, friendly, he had welcomed him to his domain. At the moment the tasked servants were getting ready to escort him to his new quarters, the King had stopped them and handed him this very dagger, as a first gift of many. __'__Have this dagger, o son of Morzan' the King had said, giving him this one with the silver handle 'and keep it always with you. It belonged to your father.' _

A half ironic smile bloomed on his lips.

_Father, at least I have something from you, more than my scar._

Skillfully, he tossed up the knife into the air and grabbed its handle again. And then, he could not but remember about the sword, Morzan's other weapon and he unintentionally shivered. Normally, he would have never expected to receive his father's blade as an inheritance, since his father was a Rider who would have had long years to live in front of him, but as the things had turned out and Morzan was dead, he had sometimes entertained the idea of having _this_ sword; the very instrument that had been the cause of such pain to him, the one that had marked him for life, deforming his back. Having possession of it, handling this blade with his own hands, conquering it. But the sword had been lost, stolen from his father's corpse. And if the killer had not taken it with him, the most probable thing is that Zar'roc would be in Morzan's grave now, or in the King's treasury.

He shoved the dagger into his boot, leaving the hilt protrude and turned to the exit, to face the new day.

In the front chamber he was met with an incoming servant who was carrying the large disc with his breakfast.

'So early, my Lord …'

'Good morning Joacum' he said to the old man jovially. 'I'm afraid that you will have to take all this back to the kitchens. Or if you don't want to take the trouble, you had better sit here and finish it yourself. I am in a hurry!'

The servant placed the heavy disc on a table and tried to stop the young man, before he exited the room. He was well aware of his master's habits, but as far as breakfast was concerned, he had his own views.

'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. If you want to keep on being strong, never miss it. Now, excuse your haste and …'

'Not now, please!' the youth abruptly cut the old man's speech and made for the exit, his nose already having caught the sweet smell of fresh-baked almond biscuits, emanating from the disc. His servant was well aware of his weaknesses too.

'My Lord, have at least some milk' protested the old man and started to pour from the milk jug into a glass. Finally the youth turned round.

'In here, in here!' He grabbed a plain, silver cup with a copper maple leaf inlaid on it which rested on the table and emptying the water into the flower vase, he tended it to the servant. This cup was Swordmaster Tornac's personal present for his last birthday. The youth favored this particular gift and used it on an everyday basis.

Smiling the old servant watched his young master swallow his milk greedily and, not being able to resist, grab two almond biscuits from the plate and run to the exit.

'Have a nice day, my Lord,' he wished him.

Down in the yard, the youth noticed his Swordmaster stand upright, his right hand on his hip, his left grabbing the hilt of his longsword with experienced confidence. The man was wearing only his shirt, his tunic thrown next to the training weapons.

Tornac was facing the east where the sun was about to rise. The youth knew very well that his trainer was exercising the strength of his eyes. Sometimes a warrior had to face his opponent from an inconvenient angle such as sun-wards, so one had better be prepared to cope with it.

'Good morning Swordmaster.'

Without turning to him the man commented with a harsh voice.

'It took you so long to appear. Was this old servant of yours feeding you again?' he turned abruptly and faced his young trainee. 'I've told you – how many times? – I want you with a light stomach, you could eat later.'

'Just a cup of milk, Tornac!' He dared not mention the cookies.

'Milk! I want to see now, how you will be able to fight with your belly full of milk, like some soft-belly kitten.'

The young man pursed his lips and frowned, anger already beginning to stir in his core. The Swordmaster lifted an eyebrow. He liked provoking this young fighter. With his anger to guide him, he was becoming vigorously aggressive, so he fought even more strongly. And once he had pulled the anger out of him, then he had to teach him how to use it wisely, for his own advantage.

'I most definitely am not!' the youth said with dark shinny eyes.

The Swordmaster gave him a crooked smile.

'At least, try not to throw up on my face. Now, attack me!' He was standing with his hands crossed on his chest, his feet slightly open on the ground, his sword hanging from his belt inside its sheath. 'Murtagh! I said, attack me!'

The young man reluctantly attacked him. Tornac was not even touching the hilt of his sword. In an instant his trainer's blade was in his hand and he had repelled the attack. The youth had to admire the man's style, a style that as much as he tried, he had not managed to achieve so far.

'What is this?' Tornac said with a strict voice. 'Are you playing? I said, attack me. Come on, soft-belly, I've just insulted you.'

With much more careful movements this time, the youth drew and attacked. Moments later he found himself with his back against his trainer's chest, Tornac's long blade stuck on his neck, his own sword thrown to the ground.

'How were you able to do this?' he asked with astonishment.

The man chuckled and released him.

'This is what we have to practice today' he said. 'An opponent may attack you in a moment when you are not ready. You must learn how to survive it.' Tornac sheathed his sword and took his previous posture once again. 'Now, attack me again, more slowly, and watch my movements.'

During the next two hours, they practiced this again and again and they changed positions, until the Swordmaster sheathed his sword for good.

'Not bad for the first time' he commented. 'We will have to do it again tomorrow, until you master it. But we are not over for today. I want you again in the yard before the afternoon comes, after you have finished with all those fat scholars of yours. I have arranged something for you.' Tornac smiled, then turned his back and left towards the barracks.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The Astrologist was silently passing through the corridors of the castle. He had spent his night watching the stars, he had rested the whole morning and now, early in the afternoon, it was his time of descending from his den. The old man was heading towards the kitchens when his eye caught a gathering in one of the eastern porches facing the courtyard. As he approached the wide, opened doors, he heard men shouting and the clang of swords. He knew very well that this hour of the day the usual occupants of the yard had long finished their training and had gone to the barracks and as his curiosity took the best of him, he exited to have a better look.

Among his fully armored guards and the many bystanders of various nobles, who never lost the opportunity to be around his Majesty, there stood the King of Alagaësia himself.

The sun must have recently abandoned the porch, for a sweet heat, emanating from the marble floor slabs, warmed pleasantly his old body; a thing that the Astrologist found very agreeable. He came closer to his King bowing deferentially and stood beside him. Down in the yard some of the most talented fighters demonstrated their skills in sword-play. There were several of them, but the King's eyes were fixed upon a couple of young men, not more than fifteen. The old man looked carefully and recognized the 'Warrior' as the one of the youths. The King stood silent, the usual calculating gaze on his face. He sensed his Astrologist beside him and seeing that the old man had spotted the object of his attention, he spoke in a low voice only for him to hear.

'He is promising. He could make a perfect Rider.'

The Astrologist was well aware that his Majesty was eagerly looking for a new Rider for one of the last two Dragon eggs he possessed. The old man knew that the King was testing strong warriors and loyal nobles, but until this day neither of the eggs had hatched.

'Your Majesty, you cannot grand _him_ this power!'

The King gave him a sideways glance.

'His teachers inform me that he is brilliant, diligent, studious and zealous in learning and self-improvement.'

'But what about the first flame, your Majesty?' the Astrologist dared to object. As the King did not answer, the old man went on. 'May the son of …'

Rising his hand abruptly, the King cut short his Astrologist.

'It is not my wish for the many to learn his identity.' He nodded towards the guards and a few of minor courtiers, present at a short distance.

The astrologist bowed with submission.

'As you wish my King.'

The King remained silent for a long while, watching with scheming eyes the youths in the yard, fighting each other. The Astrologist could understand that he was measuring the boy of Morzan; in which way he could possibly use the young man better. However, he, himself was totally opposed to this idea. He disapproved of any use he could have, and considered the youth as a potential threat against his King.

After a while the King spoke again.

'He may not be the 'Warrior'.'

'He may be.'

Down in the yard the adolescents went on demonstrating their skills, the Swordmaster shouting instructions to them, about their moves and footing.

'Watch your step Aldon, if you do not wish to find yourself with your back on the dirt' the first one said with conceit.

'I was pretending to be the loser. After all, it is the King on the porch watching you.' The other laughed and thrust, only to be pushed back.

The first youth turned abruptly towards the buildings behind him. Indeed, his Majesty had come to the edge of the porch watching the soldiers sparring into the inner yard. He felt, more than saw the King's dark eyes fixed on him and filled with pride. Tightening his grip on the handle of his sword with both hands he greeted the King, touching the blade to his forehead. At the same moment he sensed his opponent's attack and turned to face him. The youth who was called Aldon thrust against his back, but at the last moment the other managed to parry.

'Show off Murtagh?' Aldon scoffed. 'I will not make it so easy for you this time, King watching or not.'

He appeared to be several months, maybe a year or so older than the other and a fierce opponent. But the younger one looked more flexible, ingenious in his movement and confident about himself. The sparring went on for some more minutes. The winners had already been proved in all the other couples, so the two youths attracted all gazes on them.

'Who is the other, your Majesty?' the Astrologist asked with interest.

'The son of a soldier, serving presently on Gil'ead. His father is a loyal servant of mine.' The King's voice rose a bit. 'A loyal servant himself.'

'He is good' the Astrologist commented, 'but he stands no chance against the other.'

The King half smiled pleased.

'So I can see.'

In a short while, as was expected, the older youth lost. The King and the Astrologist watched the adolescents talking for a while, then separating, the older following the Swordmaster and the younger one heading towards the back of the palace.

'I would like to know him better, your Majesty' the Astrologist stated. 'Perhaps it could be arranged to teach him.'

The King pressed his lips thoughtfully. Should the boy of Morzan be the first flame on his map, the Astrologist might find it out.

'That could be arranged.'

His gaze was still fixed at the back of the youth. The King could imagine where he was going and frowned. He would probably visit the graveyard of the palace, where both his parents had been buried in the same grave. Morzan's grave. His Majesty disapproved of these visits, though he had never forbidden them so far. He didn't like the fact that anyone could see the boy there and suspect his parentage, but the young one had got accustomed to this habit since he was a little child and used to decorate the grave with flowers, notes for his mother, even toys.

The youth turned the corner of the dark stone castle and walked through the gardens to the backside, where a small, graveyard was located, well hidden behind the foliage, with the graves of the past Kings, Queens and of a few senior nobles.

Morzan's grave stood at a conspicuous place of the graveyard, where the King had decreed it be built. He stopped for a while keeping his distance, and looked around him. Tornac would probably scold him for being here and the King would definitely be displeased. The Swordmaster used to motivate him to forget all about his past and focus on his future. With Morzan as his father and Selena the Black Hand as his mother, he was lucky that not many knew about his existence and Tornac preferred the facts to stay like this. His father had many enemies, so had his mother. He knew very well that too. But he was alone there, not a single soul could be seen around, so he came close and placed a rose on the marble; a rose he had earlier picked, as he was passing in front of a flowerbed.

'Mother …' he touched with his palm the cold surface, caressing with his fingers _her_ name. 'Tomorrow I'm becoming fifteen.'

He shifted a small twig, some fallen leaves the wind had stuck there, some dirt covering part of her name.

'Mother, I do remember, I never forget you.'

'Well met, my young Lord!'

The voice ground his ears distracting him from his thoughts. He winced, and annoyed, turned to see the speaker. He had hoped he was alone in there. Where was this man standing a few minutes ago? He recognized him immediately. Lord Sobel was one of his Majesty's loyal servants, one of the minor nobles who surrounded the King, all the time begging for privileges. How, by Gods above, had he learned about him?

Dressed in rich, ostentatious garments and with a gracious movement, the noble approached and bowed to him.

'Young Lord, I was with his Majesty the King presently, watching your achievements in swordplay and I dare say, your Great Father would be very proud of his son.'

He didn't like this man's voice, full of empty flattery, nor the fact that he had mentioned Morzan. All he liked was to be left alone for a few moments with the memories of his mother. But he returned the courtesy and then he stood still.

'The reason of this meeting, my young Lord, is to give you my best wishes for your coming birthday,' lord Sobel said, waving a scented, lace trimmed handkerchief. 'And to invite you to my estate' he went on. 'My dear son, who happens to be just a few years older than Your Grace, would be very pleased to entertain you.'

The youth was ready to thank him, refuse the invitation and just leave this place. It seemed that the few peaceful moments near the grave of his mother, he was craving for, were not meant to be this day. But Lord Sobel grabbed his shoulder and persistently led him to walk with him.

'Of course my invitation is not mentioned for tomorrow, I'm sure a young Lord like you would have too much to do on his birthday. But any other day you wish, my Lord, my humble home is yours. My son would be delighted to show you our horses.' He touched his scented handkerchief on his nose, as if the strong smell of the horsed affected him from so far.

'Horses?' For the first time since their meeting, the youth paid him a bit of attention. His eyes glittered full of interest.

'Of a special breed, my Lord. Much alike the one of Your Grace, I would say.'

Lord Sobel had made a point. He was well aware about this young man's love for horses. With his previous long experience as a courtier, he could sense the rising interest inside him. The youth turned and faced him, his voice full of spirit.

'I would like to come to your estate; I would like to see the horses.' He said with an excited voice, but then he thought better. 'But only if his Majesty approves of this.'

'Oh, but he will. All you have to do, is just ask him.' Lord Sobel advised.

'Ask him? I do not keep meetings with his Majesty very often.' The youth voiced doubtfully.

'Oh! Come now, my young Lord, you should be much closer to the King.' The laced, scented handkerchief waved once again towards the youth's chest. 'After all you are his best friend's son.'

'Am I interrupting something?' Tornac with his strict, military style cut short the noble's bubbling. Both of them turned to see the man standing behind them at a distance, his hands crossed on his chest, a menacing glare in his eyes. With long strides he came closer, his left hand holding the pommel of his longsword still hanging from his belt. Lord Sobel repeated his wishes, bowed again and hurriedly left. Tornac's eyes followed the man, a contemptuous frown on his face. He was well aware of this lord Sobel. His son, a young man of moderate ability, had not a chance of possessing any major position in the Kings court. His father would do anything to promote his case. But the Swordmaster disapproved and disliked the fact that someone had tried to use and manipulate his young trainee who had none to advise and guide him through life.

When the noble disappeared from sight, the Swordmaster turned to his young trainee.

'What did he want?'

'To pay his respect and give his good wishes about my birthday. I wonder … How did he know about me?'

'Oh, he has probably bribed someone who knows. Most of those nobles would sell their own mother for a few coins, let alone some information' the Swordmaster spat. Both of them started walking back towards the monument.

'He has just invited me to his estate' the youth said. 'And you know what? I would like to go. I want to see the horses.'

Tornac chuckled.

'Young man, you know very well about the King's views. It is useless to entertain such wishes.'

The youth sighed bitterly.

'Aye, he keeps me locked inside. As my father did once …' they had reached again the grave of Morzan. 'He did not permit my mother to visit me, but occasionally.' His eyes were shining as he whispered the last sentence. He sat on the cold marble, touching once again her engraved name. 'We craved for each other, but he never cared. He was keeping me locked in his castle.'

Tornac hold firmly his shoulder.

'Lad, there was a reason for it. There is always a reason for everything. By keeping you locked in the castle and secretly visiting you, they probably saved your life. You must be grateful for this.'

The young man turned abruptly and pierced the Swordmaster with his gaze.

'_You_ say that? _You_? Who know very well what he has done to me? Should I be grateful for this too? For such pain?'

Tornac nodded in understanding.

'I've heard that he was drunk.'

The young man shivered.

'That was not an excuse,' he stated angrily. 'And this fool of a noble earlier said that my father would be proud of me.'

'No' the Swordmaster agreed. 'It wasn't. And, yes, he would be proud. Any man would be proud to have you as a son.' He sat beside his trainee. 'Murtagh, your father was a significant man. Not only because he was the King's right hand man and his personal friend. But he was a Rider and being one he possessed such power a commoner cannot imagine. You should be proud of your parentage.'

The youth's eyes shone, his anger starting to stir inside him.

'What are you talking about? Do not pretend that you've never heard about Morzan's terrible deeds!'

'I said that you should be proud of being a son to a Rider who possessed such power. Using this power … that is another matter' Tornac said. He looked the young man straight in the eye, slightly lowering his voice. 'I am very well aware of your father's deeds, as is everyone else. But, you know, everything depends on the perspective. You, my young man, live in the palace, in the King's court, plus you cannot do something to change the past. So, stop thinking about Morzan's deeds and focus on your own. As for the visit to lord Sobel's estate, you had better forget it. Neither the King will approve of it, nor will I. Period.'

Tornac stood and gestured at his young trainee to follow him. The youth would like to stay a little longer, but it seemed that the Swordmaster was determined to drag him out of there. So he stood and followed.

'It is time to start appraising the people approaching you, Murtagh.' The Swordmaster advised. 'Not all of them will be your friends. Most of them will try to lure you, to gain through you favor of the King.'

'But, you know what, Tornac? This noble was right about one thing. I should be closer to the King.'

The Swordmaster laughed heartily.

'You are too young to be involved into politics yet' he said, understanding the youth's ambitious character, 'but one day you will be in the King's council.'

'How do you know?'

'It is obvious. The King is training you to be one of his generals one day. If not something even more.'

They had already passed the gardens and stood in front of the back entrance of the castle.

'Tomorrow morning I'm not expecting you in the yard' Tornac said. 'Have a day off.' And the Swordmaster turned abruptly and with a quick pace he disappeared, leaving him standing alone.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The late afternoon sun was falling on the terrace, warming the stone slabs of the floor with its golden rays. Both the young men had climbed up there – as they used to do very often, looking at the city spreading beneath the castle.

'Tomorrow it is my birthday and my intention is to spend my morning doing something very special' the younger one said and paused waiting for the other's comment.

His friend watched him with rising curiosity, but as he didn't say anything and just nodded, the first one continued with an excited voice.

'I intend to go out, into the city.'

This statement caused the other's chuckle.

'You know very well that the King forbids it. No! You wouldn't dare do this, ever.'

The implied timidity at these ironically said words, made the other stubbornly declare, 'Of course I shall do it.' The youth determinedly fixed his eyes on his friend's, a bold half-smile hanging from his lips. 'Are you coming?'

The other was taken aback, his previous ironic tone already discarded.

'Have you lost your mind? If I ever do something like that, I'm dead!'

'Are you afraid of the King?'

'Aren't you?'

The sharp tones ceased, but both stayed facing each other. At last, the older one whispered with a carefully controlled voice.

'It won't be the King the one who will impale me because he won't have the opportunity. The Swordmaster will do it himself.'

His younger friend gave him an understanding look.

'Very well! If you feel like that, then I'll have to go alone. But that won't be much fun.'

He crossed his hands on his chest and turned his back to his friend, leaning against a battlement of the wall. The setting sun illuminated the city, shedding a red-golden magical color on the roofs, the wide streets and squares of the market under the citadel giving a captivating liveliness. The upcoming night would follow and the city would be covered by an inviting mantle of mystery, a tinge of intrigue the day deprived it of.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, his friend's hand, and turned to him again.

'Fine! I'll be there with you,' he said. 'I'm supposed to take care of you. Am I, or am I not your faithful servant?'

The first youth pursed his lips, discontented.

'You know very well that I consider you as a friend.' He turned again to look at the afternoon, sun-flooded city, the gold of the sky taking darker tones of red. 'My best friend!' he whispered softly, as if he was talking to himself. His hands griped hard the stony battlements and he leaned outwards the wall, pretending that the changing of the evening guard - happening at this time by the squad at the entrance of the castle - was the object of his interest, and thus preventing the other seeing the emotion on his face.

The other youth pulled him inside.

'Murtagh, I know that you do not want to be considered a master,' he said with an earnest voice. 'But your intentions won't change the facts!'

The younger sighed.

'I'm going anyway. Tomorrow I'll be fifteen years old. I've lived isolated in the castle almost all the days of my life. It is time for me to go out.'

The other one held both his shoulders amicably and looked at him in the eye.

'You have decided upon it. You are not going to change your mind, are you?'

His friend smiled at him with shiny eyes.

'Just a stroll around the market, Aldon' he voiced with enthusiasm. 'We will put on common clothes, cloaks with hoods. We will look like palace-servants; no one is going to identify us.'

'Won't you think again? If the Swordmaster …'

'Oh, come on now! Swordmaster Tornac is not going to find out. Just for a while, and back again. Do me this favor! It is not that I become fifteen every day. And we are going to see so many things!'

The other seemed to subside.

'I'll escort you if you promise me not to be involved in any trouble.'

His friend grabbed him from the shoulders excited.

'Tomorrow the city and the market belong to us! And have no worry, we are not going to be in any trouble. We are not going to bring with us any weapon, not even a dagger.'

Next morning, the two guards watching the servant's exit of the palace were probably occupied in such a serious discussion between them that neither noticed two young men passing the gates, stooping under the weight of the heavy basket they carried. The two servants, covered in plain mantles, a dark gray the one and a light brown the other, hurriedly turned the nearest corner out of the castle. The day was warm and sunny and nothing could excuse the hood which was lowered to the eyes, worn by one of them. Going for a little while parallel to the walls without being seen, they spirited away among the first trees of the square and there, hidden inside the bushes, they got rid of the 'heavy' basket. The one, wearing the light brown mantle, making some steps towards the paved road, scrutinized the district around him. They were in the most prestigious area of the city and it was early in the morning; the nobles were still in their beds. Seeing no one around, he nodded to his companion that all was clear. The dark hood was lifted, unveiling shiny eyes and a triumphant smile on a happy face. The mantle was opened, revealing simple but expensive clothes. Both young men directed towards the market at a brisk pace.

'We are out!' Murtagh was excited. He let the hood of his mantle fall backwards and lifted his face to the bright, sunny, blue sky.

'Perhaps you shouldn't … ' Aldon started, to be cut short by his friend.

'No! please, do not spoil it.'

The morning influx of the city had already started; soon the young men were united with the multitude of people at the market. The traffic there had already begun, people selling and buying all around them. The trade and the gathering of too many people, made Murtagh feel excited. Aldon was more cautious over his friend's and master's safety. At the beginning the young man was worried and threw cautious glances around them, but soon enough, the constant passage of people and commodities made him relax a bit. There were so many around that it was hard to be spotted. The anonymity of the market offered them adequate coverage for their bold adventure, so he decided to relax and enjoy himself as well.

They looked around them with enthusiasm. Benches full of vegetables, fruits, flowers, meat, grain, leather, clothes, cotton and linen, tools, weapons, jewels, anything a man could need or have in mind were laid in front of them. Finally, what caught their attention was a small group of people gathered around two mimes, folly dressed and climbed on empty, overturned barrels, imitating everyday characters. The youths approached and stood there among the others, laughing at the funny, excessive movements of the old men.

Pleasant time passed for them quickly. They watched the mimes giving a performance. When they got hungry, they tasted the delicious sweets they bought from a confectioner's bench, licking soon after the dripping syrup from their fingers. Then, they satisfied their thirst with the juicy fruits from the bench of a greengrocer, peeking at the girls selling flowers. They noticed them smiling at them as they passed by, and whispering to each other with flushed cheeks. And finally, their attention was elicited by a knife salesman and they stood in front of his bench peering at the merchandise.

Soon, their eyes were attracted by a dagger, placed prominently compared to the rest. It seemed very old and extremely used, its shining hilt confirming the use of the previous owner's hand. But it appeared to be a piece of fine art, with beautiful carvings on the lustrous brass handle.

'Look at this!' Murtagh's eyes glittered, mirroring the metallic gleam of the object of his interest. 'May I?' he addressed the seller, stretching his hand.

The old man held the dagger with utmost care, and placed it on the open palm of the potential customer.

'How exquisite!' the young man admired, looking at the handle and testing the balance between hilt and blade.

'Of the finest quality of steel and craftsmanship' said the seller. 'My dear sir, you have never used a blade like this before, I can assure you.'

'I doubt it' Aldon laughed, gaining an annoyed look from the old man, for his interference.

They were so preoccupied with the dagger-seller that neither one of them noticed a man, dressed as a palace servant, talking to a tall, burly woman at a short distance; neither the menacing glares she gave them both nor that soon after the man left, she nodded to two others, exchanging meaningful whispers with them.

'Who is _he_? There are two of them,' one of her companions asked.

'The one with the dark mantle, I was told' the woman indicated.

The man looked at the youth with a murderous gaze.

'Stay here and be ready' he said to the woman. 'I'll give you a sign when everything is about to start. He is not going to escape.' He lifted his hood and with hasty steps he approached the youths. As he was bypassing the bench of the dagger-seller, he hit with his shoulder, seemingly by chance, the young man wearing the dark cloak, making him turn abruptly in alarm to face him.

'Hey, watch your step!' Aldon scolded him, but the man was already lost among the passing crowd and they didn't even get the opportunity to see his face. Murtagh paid no more attention to this incident and his interest was once again turned to the dagger he was holding.

'I think I'll give it a chance' he smiled to his friend, testing the edge of the blade. 'I'll buy this.'

The seller was following his customer's interest in the unique object with hidden joy, moving his head in agreement. With his experience, gained out of long years in selling, he had sensed that this young man was not what his plain clothes indicated – plain, but of the finest quality – and assumed a generous payment. No servant's interest would be caught by such an expensive and delicate item, for the simplest reason, he could not appraise or afford it.

The youths exchanged between them a few more comments about the hilt, and the younger one was about to pay for it and gain possession of the dagger when a rancorous, accusatory voice rose above all the other noises of the market, like a menacing cloud obscuring the bright sun above.

'Son of Morzan!'

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**A****/****N :** I want to assure all the readers that I work on my story on an everyday basis. And not just on this one chapter, but simultaneously on all the others to follow (It seems that the ideas flow). All that I need is your encouragement.

I thank all of you who have read and reviewed, as well as all those who have just read this story, but they had not the time to inform me about their opinion. And I want to remind you that it is your opinion that matters to me. So, please, review.


	4. The Friend and The Swordmaster (part II)

**Disclaimer :** I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.

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**A/N :** This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To **Restrained Freedom** for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

* * *

_The youths exchanged between them a few more comments about the hilt, and the younger one was about to pay for it and gain possession of the dagger when a rancorous, accusatory voice rose above all the other noises of the market, like a menacing cloud obscuring the bright sun above._

_'Son of Morzan!'_

The words fell on him like thunder on a sunny day. He felt the voice of the woman like a sword, piercing him to his core. He turned slowly and saw her standing there at a short distance, her loose hair half covering her face, her breasts overflowing her dress, her right hand menacingly raised, pointing at him with an accusing forefinger. He stood frozen looking at the wrath on her face.

'Be cursed, son of Morzan!' the woman spat. 'Cursed, for the atrocious crimes of your father!'

All the eyes of the people fixed on the two youths, standing in the middle of the market. Aldon grabbed his shoulder.

'Let's go.'

He tightened his hold on the hilt of the dagger, his reflexes ready to defend himself.

'No!' Aldon whispered in his ear. 'You said we would not be involved in any trouble. Let's leave.'

He let the dagger fall on the bench and under the terrified glance of the seller he turned and headed towards the exit of the market square, Aldon on his heels. Men and women stunned hurriedly stepped aside letting them pass through as if the two young men carried the plague, fearful eyes staring at them.

He hadn't managed to make ten steps, when a hooded man stepped up to him. As the stranger raised his hand to point at him, he almost touched his chest.

'Morzansson!'

The man's face was obscure under the hood of his cloak, but two fiery, menacing eyes stood out in the shadows. The ominous tone of his voice rose for everyone to hear.

'Accursed son of the forsworn! Death to you, evil spawn!'

For a second time within a few minutes, the name of his father was heard in public, followed by curses and threats. Numbness seized his body, preventing him from reacting. Tornac's lessons concerned an armed, threatening enemy rather than verbal confrontations in the middle of the market. Aldon held his arm firmly and pulled him backwards.

'Come! Quickly!'

They rushed towards a side lane, when a crowd, aroused and led by another hooded man, closed off their exit, cursing angrily at his name again.

'Son of the Slaughterer! It is _you_ who will pay for your father's crimes!'

Eyes pierced at him, hands rose up to point at or grab him.

Trying to avoid them, Aldon pulled at his shoulder and together they jumped above a woven basket seller's bench, scattering the merchandise and creating obstructions between them and the mob. They started running as quickly as they could, this time Aldon leading the way. The young man knew the market well enough, but it seemed that more and more people were gathering around them, shouting, cursing and threatening so that the passage through the crowd was turning increasingly difficult.

Aldon managed to scatter more goods as they passed, thus preventing the mob catching them up and creating a sufficient distance between them and the menacing crowd. The small, empty alley in front of them seemed marvelously advantageous at this time of need, and they rushed inside. The idea of reaching the citadel towards the upper square of the city, the proximity of the squad and the safety of the walls seemed comforting to their overwhelming fear too. But the end of the alley proved a dead end. Aldon should have known better.

They had to retreat and hide in an old house entrance, both young men panting, sweating and upset.

'… my terrible mistake … it should be the parallel way ...' Aldon whispered breathing hard. He grabbed Murtagh's shoulder once again. 'Listen! We must get separated.'

'Bad idea …'

'No! we have to.' Aldon stuck his friend and master's back at the door of the entrance. 'Don't you see? There is no other way … thus we will perplex them.'

The furious people hadn't spotted them hiding there so far. There was still time to go back to the main market road and from there try to reach the upper square. Aldon took off his own light brown mantle and handed it to his companion.

'Here, take my cloak and give me yours. This will definitely confuse them.'

'No, I won't put you to such a risk.'

Aldon's eyes shone.

'Do as I say Murtagh! There is not much time. Besides, I'm not the one they want. Even if they catch me, once they realise their mistake they will release me. You will have gained time.'

Reluctantly, the young man put on his friend's mantle and gave him his dark gray one. Aldon lifted his hood, then protectively covered Murtagh's head and half of his face.

'As soon as we are on the main road, you will run directly to the left. Climb the stairs and you will be out of the market.'

He grabbed his arm and led him once again. As soon as they exited the dead end, they almost came face to face with the furious mob searching for them, the two hooded men leading the others.

'Run!' Aldon instructed. 'You go the way I've told you. I'll see you soon, back in the citadel. Go!'

'There!' the first man shouted, pointing at the young man covered with a light brown mantle, who sped towards the left alley. Aldon delayed for a second, making sure that his friend was directed to the right way and that the threatening crowd had well seen him standing there, then turned and ran.

'The scum! They are breaking apart!' the other man cried.

'The one with the dark mantle! That's the man we want, leave the other!'

Aldon sensed them rushing behind him and sped as quickly as he could. He hoped that Murtagh would have the time to reach the upper square. The squad should have already seen the riot in the market, they should be near.

He directed himself towards a random spot. This part of the market had less traffic than the previous one. Τhe few merchants he bypassed, stared at him perplexed. The mob following left them astounded.

He was young, he was well trained and in a perfect physical condition. He would have escaped his persecutors running, but for the old beggar who sat squatting in a corner; seeing him running and all the others hunting him, he stretched his stick between the youth's legs, making him lose his balance and fall. Aldon hurriedly stood to go on running, but it was too late. The crowd had already reached him, furious men and women gathering from all directions. He faced them like a cornered wolf, finding no way out.

They formed a circle around him preventing his exit, most of them with sinister glares, some others out of curiosity. A few curses and threats were heard, before the two leaders stepped inside the cycle with a menacing purpose; their hands armed with the knives, the tall, burly woman had provided, out of her basket.

'Curse on you, son of Morzan! Die hard for your father's crimes!'

One grabbed the youth from the back of his mantle and held him, as he sank his knife into his kidney to cripple him; the other stabbed furiously at his chest, repeatedly, aiming at his heart. Aldon fell and the dark gray hood was lifted, revealing his face. His eyes were fixed on his murderer's with a questioning stare. His lips opened to ask, _why? Why did he have to die_, but his mouth filled with blood and collapsed on the dirty slabs of the street market.

Like a little scared bird his young life abandoned his chest, along with his last breath. His opened, beady eyes stared at the bright sun above without seeing it, his blood painted the pavement red.

'Damn it! It is not _him_! We stabbed the wrong boy' the one man shouted.

'He was _his_ companion' the other stated. 'He deserved to die as well.' And he spat at the body.

The crowd around them, having seen the killing, started to disperse in a hurry. Some women shrieked. Most of them had stalked the youths since the beginning of the incident, others had joined later. But not many had expected things would get to murder. Now the fear of the consequences made most of them run. Both leaders and the tall, burly woman were among the first who disappeared. Just a few remained, whispering to each other, most of them unrelated to the persecution and the murder. Not even one dared to touch the youth's body, either trying to offer some help or declaring his death. The amount of shed blood overwhelmed them all.

Meanwhile, Murtagh had managed to reach the upper square ascending the stairs. Panting, and feeling the veins of his temples pounding, he leaned on the railing and from there he scanned the marketplace, trying to discern his friend among the furious crowd. He saw Aldon run towards the opposite direction of the square, the mob following him. He heard them shouting threats against the son of Morzan as a few roofs prevented his view for a while, but then he spotted his friend again, as he was reaching a higher place of the market, very close to a short alley leading out of it. The youth sped to reach it and he was very near the exit, leaving the crowd behind him. Murtagh's heart missed a beat when he saw Aldon stumble and fall. Cursing and shouting, the mob engulfed him with their bodies, preventing him from seeing more.

'Nooo!'

Understanding the peril and the menacing threat against his friend's life he turned back and, without much thinking, he started jumping the stairs three at a time and rushing towards the gathered people, the squad already descending from the castle, the clang of their weapons covering the clamor of the mob.

Reaching the aggregation from behind, he tried to come in front shoving and pushing.

'Let me pass! … Let me pass!'

He pushed them all aside and stood in the middle of the cycle not caring if they could threaten his life. Aldon's body lay in a pool of his blood.

_…No! … no …no … this cannot be! … Oh, gods above … this cannot be happening …_

He fell on his knees, held his friend in his arms and trying desperately to feel him breathing, touched his cheek on Aldon's mouth.

_… Please! …please … gods … it cannot be …not him …_

When he couldn't sense even the slightest of pulse, he looked terrified at Aldon's face. Wide, open eyes – those bright, friendly eyes, his familiar, laughing eyes – stared at him, without seeing him. The blood, flowing from his slashed chest, painted his clothes and hands dark red.

_… This is not happening … this cannot be true …_

He felt his eyelids burn and a strange wetness covered part of his sight. He turned to the remaining of the crowd and realized they were gazing at him. And then the question arose …

_…Why? …_

With eyes full of tears, and a raged voice he shouted at the people still standing around.

'Why? Why did you do this! He had nothing to do with Morzan. He was innocent.'

He grasped the body and held it tightly against his chest, smearing his clothing and hands with more blood and started rocking back and forth on his knees. The bystanders stared at him astounded. None dared threaten him; they had already had enough of blood.

'Soldiers!' a voice shouted.

'Τhe squad!' another cried.

Those having been left behind, flew around and disappeared running in all directions, leaving him alone, holding tightly the body of his friend, pain overflowing his core.

The squad had already reached him, replacing the crowd of people.

He clenched his fists, nails digging inside his flesh, ready to scream the injustice. And then the understanding hit him.

_… It should be me …_

And it was there, on the blood stained pavement of the market, surrounded by the guards that he raised those clenched fists to the sky, and howled, to be heard by the indifferent gods above.

'I am the son of Morzan! I am accursed!'

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The guards led him back to the castle. Aldon's body was carried on a commandeered cart at the end of the line. Before they reached the entrance, he saw people gathered there, waiting, curious eyes prying on him, as if burning his soul. The news of the killing had already reached the citadel. Swordmaster Tornac was standing in front of all others. He grabbed his shoulder angrily and forced him inside.

'What have you done?' Tornac's voice was like a piercing steel. 'I've told you, you should never, ever exit the castle alone.'

He allowed himself to be dragged to a small inner courtyard and to be seated on a stone bench.

'Just stay here' the Swordmaster commanded and nodded to a guard to watch over him.

Tornac left, probably to see to Aldon's body and he stayed there alone, lost in his pain. His friend, his best friend, maybe his only friend had been killed because of his actions. In a haze he heard from a distance the wailing of women.

_… his mother … his sisters …_

He covered his face with his hands, not wanting to see the world around, nor to be seen. The guard was watching him with indifferent eyes.

_… what have I done …_

He had insisted on bringing his friend in the market. Aldon was reluctant to go … and then, he had left him alone …

He covered his ears, to stop listening to the lamentations of the women. If he could cover his memory too, so as not to remember …

He was still wearing his friend's brown mantle; the smell of Aldon's body left on the fabric, making him feel he was still near. He looked at his hands, stained with _his_ blood.

_It is all my fault. I should be the dead one._

And, it was _his_ eyes, the beady, empty stare …

_… Dead! …_

In a short while Tornac returned and sat beside him, gesturing at the guard to leave.

'Did you miss the noise of the market so much?' His voice held a gentler hue now. He did not seem to be so angry.

'No, you do not understand! It is nothing like this.' He turned around to look at his trainer. 'It was the need to be free, to be outside of these walls for once.'

'Boy,' the Swordmaster commented with a low, hoarse voice. 'Your freedom was very expensive.'

He lowered his head with embarrassment. He bit his lips hard, until he tasted his own blood.

'Punish me Tornac … for I have disobeyed you.'

With a rough hand the man shuffled the shaggy, disarranged hair of the youth.

'You have already been punished, lad, and more than enough.'

He closed his eyes. Aldon's open chest was crimson inside his mind.

_… the blood …_

'I didn't … I … how could this possibly have happened? These dreadful stabs were meant for me.' He stroke his own chest hard with his fist. The young man was still shocked. He gazed at his blood-stained hands, not willing to believe what had happened. 'This … cannot be …'

'Listen to me!'

Tornac tried to catch his attention. Murtagh had once again covered his face, drawn in despair. The Swordmaster grabbed his arms and pulled them down.

'I said, listen to me!' Once he had made him pay attention, the Swordmaster stated calmly. 'Aldon was your servant and he did his duty: to protect your life.'

Murtagh shook his head.

'I should never have left him alone ... I …' He was still lost in his previous shocked state.

'They would have killed you both' Tornac added with a harsh voice.

'You don't understand …' the young man protested. 'You do not know how much he meant to me.'

'No! _You_ do not understand.' Tornac shouted irritated. 'You know that I liked the boy!' He ran his fingers through his hair and snorted angrily. 'He did his duty to protect your life' he said in a milder tone. 'It was his duty to do so. He was a soldier, you were his Lord and he was obliged to protect you with his life.'

'I regarded him as my friend', Murtagh protested. 'And I believed that he considered me to be his friend too, not his Lord.' He breathed deeply, allowing his lungs to be filled with air mixed with Aldon's odor, arising from the mantle. 'And even if his duty was to protect my life that means that _his_ life was my responsibility too. I was obliged to take care of him as well. This relation flows in two parts.'

'How very true!' Tornac agreed. 'So, the next time you decide to take a risk, you must consider the lives of those depending on you.'

He bowed his head in shame. The Swordmaster was right. He had made a mistake, a great mistake which Aldon had paid for with his life. There was no excuse for him, he should have listened to his friend and be more careful, he should have not disobeyed in the first place, he should have never left Aldon alone in the market. But ... the day had started so nicely ... If not these men had ever appeared ...

_… the killers! …_

Murtagh clenched his fists angrily.

'Who were these people, anyway?'

The Swordmaster shrugged.

'Oh! Some kind of fanatics against his Majesty. The soldiers will investigate, but I doubt that they will find something.'

Murtagh stirred annoyed.

'Were they the Varden?'

Tornac gave a cautious look, his voice filled with reservation.

'Did they say such a thing?'

'No, but …'

Tornac cut him short.

'The Varden are warriors, not murderers.'

A hint of hidden appreciation in his voice made the young man suspect that the Swordmaster estimated the rebels as opponents.

'No matter who did this, Aldon is dead!' Murtagh burst. And then, his voice faded abruptly, filled with guilt. 'And it is all my fault. If I had not lured him into the market, nothing would have happened to him. He is dead because of me.'

'He did his duty to protect you.' Tornac repeated accentuating the words one by one. 'But yes, you are responsible for his death. You should never have gone out! Murtagh, you are not allowed to go out for a reason.'

Tornac watched him bending his head once again and he felt sorry for the youth. The boy he had known from an early, a tender age. He felt sorry for both boys. The man ceased scolding him.

'I know how much you cared about him, but now it is too late. Even if you sit here and brood, you will not bring him back to life again. And the next time you decide that you care so much about someone's life, you must be ready to risk yours to protect them.'

'Morzan's to blame too.' Murtagh swallowed hard. 'They said … things about my father. Terrible things.'

Tornac craned his head, looking at him with a questioning gaze.

'I mean, I knew Morzan had betrayed the Riders,' Murtagh explained. 'And that he had helped the King kill a young Dragon Rider and steal his newborn Dragon. But … they called me names … Son of the Slaughterer, they called me. They spoke about atrocities ... I didn't know about them. Except that Morzan had physically hurt me.'

'Murtagh, you …'

'My friend is dead because of my father' the youth continued. 'Because of all the crimes he has committed. And I am responsible about it because I am his son.' He lifted his head, looking at Tornac in the eye. His eyelashes flickered, trying to stop wetness from developing there. 'I am cursed!'

Tornac looked at the young man with tenderness. His usually blunt, military style had already subsided.

'Murtagh, a son doesn't choose his father.'

The young man swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat.

'I do not want to be judged by my father's deeds, it is not fair.'

Tornac thought for a while before he answered. He held the youth's arm supportively.

'Then, if you feel like that, try to redeem yourself.'

Murtagh jolted, stunned.

'How, why? I've done nothing wrong! I never harmed anyone.'

Tornac nodded in agreement.

'No, but others believe that your father did. As his heir, you are responsible for his actions, his misdeeds are your inheritance. If you want to be judged by your own actions, then you must strive to achieve respect through your deeds which will help others. Show to everyone that you deserve to be judged for your own doings and not your father's. When others see your actions, they will judge _you_ and not your father in your face.' Tornac stood, gesturing for the young man to follow. 'Let us go inside. The King has sent his gift for your birthday. It is time to see it and then write a thankful letter to his Majesty.'

He stood reluctantly. Inside the palace, he would meet with others, strangers, indifferent people. He didn't like them to look at him as if he was something worthy of curiosity, or gossip behind his back. But Tornac led him through unfrequented corridors into an inner hall they used for sparring, during the coldest winter days.

The room was empty, except for a few wooden benches against the walls and a long, stone table under one of the wide windows, used to hold various training weapons. Placed in a prominent position on the stone surface, there was the leather sheath of a long hand-and-a-half sword, of the finest make. He fingered the hilt, feeling the touch of the hard, cold steel under his fingertips.

He clenched his fist in agony. The sight of the new, unused blade made him remember Aldon's open chest, the dreadful stabs.

_I will make them pay for this._

He grabbed the hilt of the sword determined, anger stirring inside him. With his mind's eye, he could see Aldon in front of him standing and smiling. He could hear the words he knew _he_ would have said.

_'New sword gifted by the King? Let me see if you can handle your new, long blade, Show off' _Aldon stretching his hand, teasingly provoking him._ 'Fight with me! And may the best win!'_

And then he saw the fiery eyes of the hooded man, the raised accusative finger.

_'Son of the Slaughterer!'_

And the shed blood on the pavement …

He sensed his body react in his desire for revenge, as if his hand acquired a life on its own, the sword its natural extension. His muscles stretched, hardened; he threw the sheath on the floor.

'Fight me Tornac!' rage overflew his heart. Abruptly, he turned and attacked.

In an instant the Swordmaster drew his blade and parried.

'Murtagh! Are you mad? These are not training blades. We will cut ourselves into shreds.'

He could neither listen, nor understand. What was Tornac talking about? The clanging of the steel was the only sound he would listen to. The revenge he would take, the only thing he would understand.

Tornac restrained himself into a defensive stance, but soon the first cuts on his hands and fingers caused the drops of blood to spatter on his face and clothes.

'Lad! Come back to your senses!' The Swordmaster tried hard to protect his inraged trainee from hurting himself, but soon, matching cuts inevitably appeared.

It was the deep gash on Tornac's arm that finally made his anger subside. He fell on his knees trying to breathe hard. A lump in his throat suffocated him. Sweat dripped in his eyes and he couldn't see clearly. He felt his new blade heavy in his hand. Tornac's cuts made him feel more pain, rather than his own. He looked inside his soul and felt frightened. In the beginning it was the pain, the shock and despair. Then, it turned to shame and guilt. And in the end the feelings became rage and anger. This kind of anger that accompanies you, during all your life, turning slowly but steadily your blood into bile, your joy into sorrow, your trust to others into suspicion. And you are never the same again.

He felt Tornac's hand hold his shoulder firmly, supportively, and Aldon's smile flashed again in his mind. No! he wouldn't let this happen to him, he would fight this overwhelming feeling. He opened his palm and let the blood drip on the stony floor.

'I swear this, on my blood and on my word of honor! One day, I will risk my life to protect the one I care for.' And then, his voice faded to a whisper. 'For _his_ memory …'

Tornac led him to his chambers, took care of his visible wounds and watched him as he sat on his desk and composed the thankful letter to his Majesty, the King.

And as the light of the day – one of the last of the summer – subsided rather early, and the servants of the castle lit candles and torches to welcome the following night, the son of Morzan learned in this hard way that the most important thing is to protect the lives of those he cares for.

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**A/N :** Thanks for reading.


	5. The Aggrieved and The Wrongdoer (part I)

**Disclaimer :** I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.

* * *

**A/N :** This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To **Restrained Freedom** for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

* * *

Within the bloody mist that obscures his past an image remains, coming from another world; the one and unique image the King's black magic has failed to eliminate. The image of a boy with curly, blond hair and sapphire eyes bending over him; long, soft fingers, a gentle touch, liquid energy flowing through both their bodies, their need for each other's soul. The youth still lives somewhere inside him with the pureness of his body, the innocence of his soul. And he curls around this treasured image, and tries to remain still and survive.

**The Aggrieved and The Wrongdoer.**

Cold, silvery moonbeams were allowed for an instant through black, rain-filled, menacing clouds, and lighted up the windswept, frozen land. Covered with a hooded cloak, a man appeared out of thin air in the cold, winter night. The freezing, high winds coming from the north-east, blowing within the narrow streets of the small town, had caused all the residents to seek refuge in their homes early. The man, walking hastily, pulled his dark coloured cloak tightly around his body, and throwing a suspicious glance over his shoulder, started towards the exit of the town. With long strides he passed the dark, empty streets, heading towards the big estate on the gently sloping side of the nearby hill.

In front of the entrance he slowed down and slightly lifted the hood of his cloak, permitting the watcher of the gate to see his face. The guard had instinctively raised his shield and sword, but as he recognized the man, he immediately let him pass. He was well aware that the messenger of the Lord was permitted entrance at any hour of the day and night. The man crossed the iron gates and through the inner courtyard he made for the heavy oaken doors of the main house. Two barking dogs rushed at him, but as they sniffed him, they ceased their attack and let him pass; one of them just followed him at a distance. Any other guard he met lift their hands, touching their helmets in greeting.

The barking of the dogs had already alerted the servant, and the newcomer found the entrance of the residence open and lighted by a candle, held by the old man.

The messenger uncovered his head and crossed the threshold.

'Take me to your master immediately!' he ordered the servant.

'I'm sorry, Sir, master has already withdrawn in the chamber with mistress' the servant stated brusquely.

'Then, wake him up, right now!' the messenger demanded hoarsely and as he came inside, he set off at a brisk pace which the servant had to scramble to match. 'It is a matter of a great importance.'

'Could this possibly wait until the morning?' With his short, aged legs the servant practically ran after him. The old man seemed reluctant to annoy his master so late. 'You had better see the scribe. I'll gladly wake him up and …'

The glare given by the messenger froze the blood in his veins. The dark tone of the other's voice indicated that there shouldn't be the slightest delay.

'Wake your master up! Now!'

The old servant passed the messenger into a small, comfortable parlour and asked him to wait there as he crossed an inner door leading to his master's bedroom. The embers in the fireplace were still glowing, and the messenger used the small amount of heat to warm his frozen hands. It was but a few minutes later, when a tall, stout man, at about his mid forties with light gray on his temples, entered the chamber. He was still wearing his night garments, a heavy, fur cloak thrown loosely on his shoulders.

'My Lord Cantos,' the messenger bowed respectfully to his master, 'I carry momentous news.'

The lord nodded at his servant to leave, and, as the old man withdrew, he fixed his questioning eye on the messenger.

'Varden warriors are hiding in the town.' The Messenger's voice came out low and hoarse, like a whisper.

Hearing the news, the lord narrowed his eyes. He approached one of the wide windows of the chamber and looked outside, in the freezing night. His gaze lingered from the inner courtyard to the low, thatched rooftops in the town beyond the foothills. In the thick darkness he could make two or three lit candles here and there. During the last few days, three empire brigades had passed nearby, the one heading towards Urû'baen and the other two towards Gil'ead; and Varden warriors had managed to destroy them all. Rumour said that the rebels had many losses too, and maybe some injured men had sought refuge inside the city. The lord knew they had done this before, they had relatives here.

Remaining silent, the lord of Cantos clapped his hands twice, and in an instant, the servant entered the room once again.

'My Lord, at your service.'

'Wake the magician up' the lord commanded. 'He has to report to his Majesty, at once.'

The old man bowed, and was already heading towards the exit to do as he was instructed, when the decisive voice of the messenger stopped him.

'Wait!'

Both, lord and servant turned towards the man astounded over the improper interference.

'My Lord, I beg you …' the man started. 'Think about the people … about your town!'

Lord Cantos snorted angrily, clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing up and down the room. What the man had just said made sense. The King would have already been informed about his losses. Were he to know that the Varden warriors had any relations within the town, his wrath may burst upon the inhabitants. He stopped pacing and stood in front of his messenger; unofficially, the man worked as a secret informer too, on his behalf.

'Does anybody know?'

'No, my Lord' the man said, a hesitant tone in his voice.

The pacing up and down restarted.

'Master, should I go and call the magician?' the old servant asked.

The lord of Cantos stopped once again in front of the window. The previously few lit candles had become even fewer. If it was possible to spread the rumour that the King knew about the Vardens' whereabouts, the rebels would make a point of disappearing the very same night. But if the King had already been informed about their presence within the town? He sighed, cursing the rebels from within his heart. Throughout his life, he had tried hard to remain just to his people and loyal to his King. And now …

'Master …?' the old man asked anxiously.

'My lord …!' the messenger pleaded.

'Husband!' a new, troubled voice entered the poorly lit chamber. He turned towards the inner door and saw his lady standing there, half hidden among the shadows. 'Our son … your firstborn …' her voice trembled. 'Let me remind you of him, dear husband, before you decide.'

The woman's form remained in the shadows, as a soft whimper was heard from within the other chamber.

The lord of Cantos, stumbling, sat in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. Half of his face lit by the fading fire – his left eye glittered; half was hidden in the shadows. His elder son, a young man of seventeen years of age lived in Urû'baen, in the King's court. An easy prey in the Royal hands, if something should go wrong … The soft whimper was heard again, coming from the shadows. And it was not just him, but his two daughters too, reaching the age of marriage, a younger boy …

Lord Cantos closed his eyes and clenched his fists. The town, along with the nearby farms, counted four hundred and twenty eight souls. Women, children, old people …

He stood and approached the window again. The blowing wind hit mercilessly against the branches of the trees on the hill. He didn't like the soldiers around. He didn't like the rebels either. He had to protect both his city and his family. Determined, he turned towards his messenger and informer.

'Make sure that this rumour be spread; that the King has been informed and his troops are coming here to research. Do it tonight! In the morning I don't want any rebels around. And, you,' he turned towards his servant, 'make sure that the magician does not find out a thing. I do not trust the man.'

Both men bowed and left, and as the lord of Cantos enclosed his wife in his arms, the woman hid her worried face in the crook of his shoulder. 'I do not trust this magician at all' he whispered again, before they both disappeared into the shelter of his bedchamber.

As the messenger was heading towards the exit of the house, the skinny form of a man dressed in dark-coloured garments was hidden in the shadows of the dark corridor, watching him with a malicious glare. Treason, betrayal, treachery were cooking in here. His Majesty should be informed immediately.

Within this very night, his Royal Majesty, the King Galbatorix of Alagaësia had been informed by his magician of the misdeeds in Cantos.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The old servant bent over the body of the sleeping young man, and slightly nudged his shoulder.

'Master … Wake up, master!'

Murtagh jolted abruptly awake and sat up on his bed. His gaze fell on the window and he noticed the dark outside. Suddenly, an angry pain on his back reminded him, in a rather inconvenient way, his previous day's hard training. The young man had overtaxed his powers, fighting strongly and determinedly in the yard until late in the afternoon; and his sore body and muscles had taken their revenge on him all the previous evening. But, nevertheless, Murtagh was happy as he had managed to defeat Tornac in swordplay for three consecutive days. Trying to rest his tired body, he had done research in the library and finding a historical scroll of the Riders had relaxed in an armchair by his fireplace reading. And the scroll had proved to be a very interesting one, and the reading had kept him awake for the better part of the night.

The young man, scowling, collapsed exhausted on his pillows, and, sighing, closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep again.

'Master, wake up!' the servant insisted.

Murtagh turned to his side.

'What is it?' he grumbled with tightly closed eyes. 'Isn't it still the middle of the night? It's only been a while since I fell asleep … why are you waking me up?'

'No, my Lord' the servant justified himself. 'It's very early in the morning!' It had already dawned outside, but the dark clouds prevented the weak light from penetrating the thick nimbus and falling on the land.

'Never mind, Joacum. I can do myself the favor to oversleep for once' the young man mumbled, and turned to his other side.

'It is his Majesty, the King, who asks for you, immediately!'

This last phrase made the young man jolt once again. Hearing the King's name he threw down the bedding, the sleep having abandoned his tired body. This time, despite the pain on his back, he stood up in a moment and grabbing the clothes the old servant had already provided, he hurriedly put them on.

'What is it? Is there something going on? Have you heard anything?' he showered his old servant with questions. His Majesty, the King asking for him? And at this time in the morning? He was aware of the King's habit to wake up at pre-dawn, but … ask for him at such an hour? It had never happened before.

'Except for the Dragon being upset and growling … no. No, my Lord. I know nothing of it.' The old man shivered. The mighty Dragon had the bad habit of tearing to pieces anyone foolish enough to disturb his sleep. The fact that he was growling so early in the morning was definitely a bad omen. 'I wonder, my Lord, that his roars have failed to wake you up so far.'

Murtagh sheathed his sword, ready to go.

'There are two guards waiting outside, to escort you to the throne room, master' the old man warned him, arranging a few small details of his attire.

Murtag's eyes narrowed. Royal guards outside his chambers, waiting to escort him? He could not help but wonder at the meaning of this. Thinking that it would be unwise to delay more, he hurried to the exit.

Walking hastily, he headed towards the throne room; the two soldiers followed him at a brisk pace. As he approached the long hallway, in the dim torch light he spotted four fully armed guards of his Majesty removing something that resembled to a human body out of the hall; and as his curiosity got the best of him, he shouted to them.

'Wait!'

Surprised by the unexpected intervention, the guards paused. Murtagh crossed almost running the last few meters that separated him from the hideous scene outside the doors of the throne room, and decisively he pulled the rag that covered the body. He felt the blood freeze in his veins and his breath cut short. The blood-drenched rag – actually the mantle of the dead – draped the body of a young man. His tightly closed eyes and his face were blood-smeared. His tunic was torn open and a deep, ugly gash divided his chest almost in two, letting mangled flesh be seen along with broken ribs.

With wide open eyes Murtagh looked at the guard, the one whose uniform-marks showed him to be the captain of the other three. What kind of weapon could have possibly caused this terrible wound?

'Who did such a thing?' the young man's voice was full of revulsion for the repulsive spectacle.

'It was the Dragon … who hit him at his chest.' The captain explained in a low voice.

Shruikan's wrath had caused this horrible, deep wound. Then the man in front of him would have fallen dead instantly. Shrinking back from the sight of this mangled flesh in horror, Murtagh covered the torn chest with the ragged, bloodied mantle, and his attention turned to the dead man's face. Among distorted features and blood stuck hair, he managed to recognize him.

'Cantos!'

This young lord was one of his most recent acquaintances. He had even befriended him.

Murtagh swallowed hard.

'If you please, my Lord, … do not touch this body …' the guard added hesitantly.

'Why?' he just managed to ask in a hoarse voice. And what he had meant was, why this? What for had this happened? A lump had stuck in his throat, choking him.

The guard shrugged and nodded at his fellows to go ahead. Murtagh stood still, frozen outside the heavy, oaken doors, looking at the macabre image that was fading in the dim lighted corridor, until the shadows covered the overwhelming spectacle from his eyes. There would be an explanation about this frightful thing he had witnessed; he was sure about it, and he hoped it to be a good one.

'My Lord! The King is waiting.' The guards who had escorted him, had already half-opened the door and urged him pass inside. He clenched his fists breathing deeply. Shocked as he may have been, he gathered himself and entered in a most dignified fashion.

The room was faintly lit and the throne in front of him empty. Out of the shadows stood the one, black wing of the Dragon, like a velvet curtain behind the dais. A low growl echoed off the walls around him. The King stood rigid in front of one of the wide windows looking outside, his hands clasped behind his back. Murtagh bent his knee and bowed his head, waiting for his Majesty to address him. In his chest he felt his heart palpitating with tension. The scene he had witnesed a few moments ago was still alive in front of his eyes; and he felt upset as he sensed his body vibrate with the deep growl of the Dragon.

The Κing moved from the window sighing, and approaching the kneeling young man held his shoulder firmly.

'O, son of my best friend, it seems that I am surrounded by traitors.'

Murtagh gazed upward and faced his Majesty. The King's dark eyes – eyes that always caused him to shiver, whenever they had met and talked – glinted, the pupils dilated as if covering the entire iris. His lips were stubbornly pressed, a thin, straight line. The King raised him to his feet and in a conversational tone of voice, continued.

'Children! All of them. They are nothing more than children. Foolhardy children who know not what is best for them – children who need the guidance of those who are older and wiser. Imprudent, reckless, brainless children who turn against their protecting father, their Lord, their King!'

His voice vibrated more loudly now, raised a few tones higher, and the growling of the Dragon deepened menacingly. He clasped his hands behind his back again and started pacing up and down the throne hall. Murtagh's eyes followed the King, but he dared not move or interrupt the tense silence. The Dragon's growl ceased and the King stood once again in front of him. He seemed calmer now, as if he had relaxed.

'And what is left for me to do?' he asked. He was definitely not waiting for an answer to this question. 'To bring them back under my care, my guidance and my embrace.' In an instant his calmer face was distracted. His eyes sparkled and his voice took a harder hue.

'After I punish them first!'

The Dragon roared, and the young man found it hard not to flinch. But he tried to remain still and rigid. The King took hold of his shoulder; like claws, his fingers deepened into the young man's flesh.

'If your father was still alive, Iwould give the command to _him_. Now, you will take it in his place.' And with a terrible voice he continued. 'As you have so fervently pledged yourself to me, I command you, son of Morzan, to take a detachment of troops and destroy Cantos!'

Murtagh swallowed hard. He knew he could not refuse. He dared not refuse. No one would have dared to. The King looked at him in the eye, selfishly scheming, waiting for his reaction.

_… destroy Cantos! … gods above …_

Destroy the whole town? And what about the inhabitants?

'Your Majesty, how can I tell the innocent from the guilty?' the young man protested.

The King glared at him. Rage started to stir inside him. He goggled at him.

'Innocent? Who could possibly be the innocent there? They are all traitors! Burn them all at the stake and bury their ashes with dung!'

Murtagh was astounded. Had he just received the command to kill innocent men? Elders, women, children? Burn them … alive? He tried hard to stand and not to fall on his knees.

Now the King was in a terrible rage. His wrath was out in full force. He stepped up and down and continued to rant cursing his enemies and describing how he would scourge the land of anyone who bore him ill will. The young man had never seen him in this state. And suddenly he realized that the man in front of him didn't possess the mercy or foresight to gain the people's loyalty, and he ruled only through brute force guided by his own passions.

Next time the King addressed him, his lips were covered with saliva and his eyes glistened with fury. On his face was written the death sentence of so many …

'I've already given the orders for the detachment of troops to be ready and, you, son of Morzan, will lead them. You leave tomorrow at dawn. And may Cantos be an example to avoid.'

Gesturing the King dismissed him and Murtagh conventionally bowed and hurriedly left the throne room. The way back to his quarters seemed to him like a journey through hell. The mangled body of the young lord of Cantos … the terrible command, given so easily …

With the eyes of his soul he could see the city burnt, destroyed … The inhabitants dead, slaughtered … He could hear the pleas for mercy of the women … the cries of the children. The despair of hard-working men, being unable to save their families … The disgust and hatred against him, written on their faces, the detestation in their eyes … for him. Him! The son of Morzan, _the son of the slaughterer …_

He could see himself on his horse, giving the order. _Trying_ to give this dreadful order…

_… No! … I can't! …_

He knew he would be unable to do this. He just couldn't do this. His young heart could not accept all this gratuitous violence.

_… Not me! … Never! …_

He reached his room and asked from the servants tasked to clean the place, to go and leave him alone. He sat in front of his table and hid his face in his palms. He could understand now that what had been said during his last meeting with the King the day of his last birthday, all these beautiful words, were all lies.

Like a snake he had whispered gilded lies into his young ear. Beautiful cities built across the country, filled with the greatest warriors, artisans, musicians, and philosophers. Peace and prosperity would flourish. Where were all these now? Over the dead bodies of the civilians? Of old people who had worked hard for a lifetime to pay taxes to the throne? Of women, holding babies in their arms, born to be offered as soldiers for the glory of _'his Majesty'_? Of innocent children who would never reach adulthood to be _his_ loyal subjects? All of them would die with a question on their lips. 'Why?' And they would die cursing his name.

_… Never! …_

The memory of a little boy entered his vision. A boy sitting on a windowsill … waiting for days, weeks, months … and then the soldiers came … He saw a young man, holding a hand and a half sword … raised, ready to strike … the boy crying, begging for his life … the sword falling … beating … the spilled blood …

_… No! I cannot … I will not …_

He pressed his eyes tighter. A few years ago, he had made a promise to a dead youth. He would be useful to others, he would risk his life to protect, and would be judged for his own actions and not his father's. And this promise he intended to keep.

Hours passed and he was still sitting alone in his room, in front of his table; with his face hidden in his palms, desperation growing to his core, when the Swordmaster Tornac entered the room.

'I've heard about it. Everyone in the castle is talking about this.' The older man took a seat at the other side of the table, facing his trainee and young friend.

Murtagh didn't answer, he just uncovered his face. He was pale and haggard; dark circles were already forming under his eyes.

'What are you planning to do?' Tornac cautiously asked.

'I cannot do this …' the young man's voice was hoarse.

'You cannot refuse this mission without risking your life.' Tornac said, 'And your life is the most valuable possession of yours. If you intend not to follow the King's orders then you must know that at the same moment, you put yourself in the opposite side of his interests.'

Murtagh nodded.

'I still cannot do this.'

Tornac looked at him with care, almost with tenderness.

'What will you do?'

'I'm leaving secretly tonight.'

'In that case I'll accompany you.'

Murtagh sat up astounded. He knew that the Swordmaster was loyal to the King. Tornac had lived the greatest part of his life in the palace, training soldiers for his Majesty's service. He knew that the older man befriended him deeply, but he never expected _him _to turn against the law of the King.

'There will be risk.' He cautiously said.

'I know. But, if you decide to leave, I will help you.'

'But … afterwards …' Murtagh trailed.

'Do not think about _'afterwards'_. It's too early for this.' Tornac cut him short. The Swordmaster stood. 'I am going to make some preparations for the journey' he announced. 'You just make sure that there will be an exit left open for us.'

Murtagh stood up too. He grabbed the bunch of the flowers from the vase and started to the exit.

'Murtagh!'

He turned speechless and faced the Swordmaster.

'I know where you are going. But do not do such a thing, lad. Do not go there. Someone might see you in the graveyard and inform _him_. _He_ mustn't understand your intentions. If there is any chance of succeeding, _he_ mustn't know.'

The young man stopped hesitant. He swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat. His fist tightened around the soft stems and petals, pressing, melting them and letting them drop onto the floor.

'I will not go.'

He returned to his previous seat, and covered his face with his palms once again. He felt Tornac's hand holding his shoulder firmly, comfortingly.

'_She_ will be with you all the way, lad, you know that._ She_ will be with you, wherever you go.' The Swordmaster could understand that the young man wanted to be left alone. 'Meet me at the stables tonight' he said and he got out of the room. And Murtagh was left alone to fight with his nightmares, past and recent.

Early in the afternoon of the same day, two soldiers were seated in front of a table in the barracks, playing dice. Some of their fellows dawdled standing around, watching the game.

'This roll will be mine' one of the gamblers said, and kissed the dice before he threw them on the table.

'It seems that today is not your day, man' one of the bystanders commented. 'Snake eyes? What unlucky dice!'

'No, no! I'm sure my Lady Luck is going to change. Come on Lady, show me your smiling face!'

'Well, well, well, what is he doing here?' his opponent grumbled, his eyes narrowed, directed towards the entrance.

The soldier noticed a young man standing there, nodding at him and recognized him immediately. He had seen him fighting in the courtyard many times and he knew that the Swordmaster Tornac was his personal trainer. This young warrior was not one of the many who lived in the barracks; his place was in the palace, with the nobles and everybody knew that he was in the favor of the King. The soldier had heard strange rumors concerning this young man, rumors that wanted him to be … but nonsense, The Forthsworn had never had children. He stood and, as the young man didn't move to come closer and meet him, he approached the door.

'How can I help you, Milord?'

The young man's eyes fixed at the other soldiers. A fiery glare made the men flinch, and mind their own business.

'I've heard that this night you keep the watch of the left postern gate of the castle' he said in a whisper.

'You have heard well, Milord' the soldier agreed.

The young man pressed two silver coins into the guard's palm, looking at him in the eye.

'There is a lady, in a nearby village …' he lied. 'Without my presence she will be very grieved tonight. And I do not wish her to be grieved.'

The guard gave him a crooked smile.

'Do not worry Milord. Your lady will be pleased.'

The young man left and the soldier returned to his fellows smiling, with sparkling eyes.

'It seems that Lady Luck has smiled at me today' he said. 'And she has smiled at me for good!' he added.

Later that night Murtagh stuffed a few necessary clothes in a bag and gathered all his weapons. He strolled around the rooms absentmindedly, touching his familiar things, a quill on his desk, a book on the shelf, Tornac's silver cup ... A moment before he left the room to seek cover in the shadows of the corridor, he opened again the bag and placed the silver cup with the copper maple leaf on it carefully inside. Then he made secretly for the stables to meet with Tornac.

The Swordmaster was already there, waiting for him with the saddled horses. They just nodded to each other and Tornac passed the bridle of his gray war horse in his hand. This was a friend he would never abandon. The animals were ready, their hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle the noise.

Just before they exited the stables Tornac grasped his shoulder. Murtagh turned abruptly and locked eyes with the Swordmaster.

'Lad, whatever happens, remember this: your life is the most important thing; run to save it. If something happens to me, know that what I care most for is your dear life.'

Murtagh could sense the care and love this man had bestowed upon him since his childhood.

'Nothing is going to happen, Tornac, either to me or to you. You are the best swordsman in the whole of the Empire' the younger man said and his chest filled with pride and confidence.

The older man gave a lopsided smile and tightened his grip on the younger one's shoulder.

'I know that, lad, have no fear. Nothing is going to happen.'

A faithful servant, serving at this late hour his Majesty in the throne room, would affirm later that Shruikan was uneasy this night. Growls and puffs of smoke and fires from his nostrils filled the hall. The King, sitting on his throne, was uneasy too.

On top of the highest tower of the citadel, the astrologist was leaning on his ancient celestial map. On this night, the bright flame of the 'Warrior' was even brighter.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

'You have not captured him!'

A deep, menacing growl started behind the throne, stirring their guts and bringing on the surface of every man's consciousness the worst of his fears. All of them fell on their knees at once and bowed their heads to the King. The one and only guard who dared a glance at his Majesty, saw him standing rigid, cruel, inhuman before his throne, his fists clenched, his face a mask made of stone. The growl grew more frightening and menacing until it turned to a loud roaring. An enormous lazulitic eye opened looking at them with murderous intent, and a jet of dark fire darted above their heads. The edge of a black-velvet wing and hard, deadly talons hit the stone floor beside the trembling men, causing pieces of masonry to scatter about. The Dragon howled the King's wrath.

The man on the throne glared at the captain of the squad.

'You and your men were not capable of stopping _a_ _boy_!'

The captain didn't dare to raise his head and look at his Majesty. His breastplate and clothes were covered in blood, his left hand pressing a deep bleeding gash on his right shoulder. Many of his men were wounded too and pieces of their armor were torn and blood stained.

'Your Majesty' the captain protested 'they both fought like fiends, coming out of the shadows. Their swords were bloody with the blood of my men.' His voice sounded full of awe as he added. 'They killed so many good soldiers. I've never seen men fight like this … never in my life. As if they were demons of the underworld … Demons of the night, who took advantage of the dark.' The captain's terrified eyes fell on the King's boots, as he descended the dais and approached him. 'Both of them have decimated my men' he muttered.

The King stood before him at a small distance and the soldiers bowed their heads lower, quaking with fright. For a while the only sound that was heard was the deep growl of the Dragon. When the King spoke, his voice was hard, holding no mercy.

'Speak!'

Trying to stop his teeth from chattering and cease his shudder from the blood loss and fear, the captain began to report. The King standing so near him and the Dragon growling so menacingly forebode nothing good.

'We tried to form a circle around them to prevent their escape, but instead of engulfing and arresting them, they managed to escape our grip every time.'

The captain swallowed hard. The Dragon's growling hardened to an angry roar and another jet of fire passed over their heads and hit the side wall, turning a banner with the Empire's crest on it to a smoking, half-burnt rag.

'Their swords dripped from the blood of my men as they were falling, mowed down like grain. And, when it seemed that we would take control over them, the younger one with his frenzied horse tried to break our hold, and jumping over two soldiers, managed to escape. His companion stayed behind to cover for him. We were unable to overcome the man with our swords, neither did he allow us to reach out and chase the other. Taking advantage of the fact that he was on horseback he flanked us from left to right mercilessly. Finally, when he turned to flee, one of my men threw a knife at him from a distance, and it struck him on his back. This was his undoing. His younger companion, turned towards him and seeing him fall, screamed his name. Like a demon with fiery eyes, he brandished a blood dripping sword, flashing in the dim lantern glow; and for a moment, we thought that he was about to rush against us and take his revenge on the few who had remained alive. But changing his mind, he turned and ran away like a madman. We haven't managed to capture him, but his companion is dead, your Majesty' the captain faltered.

The King remained silent and after a while the angry growl of the Dragon ceased.

'Where is the body? Bring it to me!' the King commanded and two of the guards hurried to execute his will.

They brought the body inside and placed it at the King's feet. Tornac's eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted, as if the man was about to speak at the moment of his death. His chest was blood-clean, but his gloved hands and the sleeves of his doublet were covered in blood stains; blood that surely did not belong to him. The King looked at him for a while with a cold stare. Then, he gestured to the men of the squad to leave. Breathing with relief the men hurried out the throne room and closed the heavy doors behind them. The King leaned over the body.

'Tornac, my _faithful_ servant!'

The ironically spoken words held inside them a large amount of restrained malice. The Dragon roared behind him, releasing from his nostrils black smoke and dark fire. The hard talons tore against the stone floor next to the body. Inside his darkened mind a half-forgotten, bloody image appeared.

_… a youth, with long dark hair leaning on the top of another, like an angel of doom …_

The venomous anger of the beast was released and Shruikan advanced simultaneously against the fallen body of the Swordmaster and the King. With his mighty, strong wing he shoved the King, making him fall on the body of the dead man. For an instant Galbatorix was facing Tornac's open eyes. The King's dark magic, used along the Dragon's true name, forced Shruikan's wrath to subside; and he was confined to roaring in anger and pain, as he was forced to withdraw behind the throne.

The King grabbed the dead man's hair and lifted his head, bringing it closer to his face; his voice began to unleash his wrath.

'_You_, traitor! I trusted you with the son of Morzan! I believed that you were my loyal servant, but you have proved to be more loyal to … _this boy_ than your King. Where is your trainee _Swordmaster_?'

The King looked at the staring, open eyes of the dead Tornac. The slightly turned corners of his lips, held a hint of a last mocking smile. And his Majesty imagined that he could hear the last words these lips had cried.

_'…Run, my lad! Run as fast as you can. Run! …'_

He imagined he could read on this stony smile the ironic words addressed to him.

_'…He is not yours anymore! You will never have him! …'_

And the King understood that he had lost this battle. This battle, but not the war. Never! The son of Morzan would be _his _again … someday.

Meanwhile, having withdrawn behind the throne, the Dragon, growling, covered his head and body with his enormous wings, like two black, velvet curtains falling on the floor from the ceiling. Touching his snout on the stone slabs and closing his eyes, he concentrated on the same soothing image he had been treasuring in the depths of his core for one hundred years now, trying to survive …

_… a youth with curly, blond hair and sapphire eyes leaning on the top of him. Chastity and innocence spring from these eyes and shower him with pure love. Hands with long, white fingers, a gentle touch and then, a liquid fire burning them both. A creature, as if coming from another world, the world of the _others_ …_

From within his soothing sanctuary, the mighty Dragon heard the voice of the King speaking, cursing, threatening. And _this_ voice brought upon the surface of his soul the other thing he remembered.

_… another youth, with long dark hair leaning on the top of the fair one, like an angel of doom. Eyes __filled with guilt, his voice full of remorse._

_'This was not the agreement!'_ _the youth's voice says trembling__.__ His hands smeared with crimson, tainted __with the blood of the beloved one._

_'Too late Morzan! Now you have turned against them. You are mine! Mine, forever.'_

_He sees himself as a hatchling … _

… taken … stolen … dishonored …

_… in the hands of the killer … _

_And then the curtain of blood, of destruction, of pain, covers everything else. And he howls, and curls, and squirms, and sinks deeper and deeper into chaos …_

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

**A/N:** Thanks for reading.


	6. The Aggrieved and The Wrongdoer (partII)

**Disclaimer :** I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.

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**A/N :** This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To **Restrained Freedom** for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

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~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The horse galloped. And Murtagh couldn't remember another time when his horse had galloped faster. The sky overhead was dark. Black, rain-filled clouds hanged above the frozen road, and in front of him spread out farmland and vast plains. He had left Urû'baen several leagues behind, and so far he was not aware of any pursuit. But even if there was any, he was far beyond their reach.

The young man felt his face freeze under a strange wetness that dripped from his burning eyes. The image of Tornac faltering on his saddle and then collapsing, while the King's guards surrounded the fallen body, hiding it from his sight, would not abandon him. His throat was burning the same way his strangely wet eyes did. In the silence of the night, interrupted by the howling wind, he had yelled the name of his Swordmaster, friend and companion, dozens of times. And now, his fierce rage flooded his chest, reaching once again up to his throat.

'Tornac! … Where are you? … Tornac!'

Listening to his scream the horse neighed, reducing its frantic rush for a while. Then, it stood up on its hind legs and kicked the frosty air with its hooves. It seemed that the sound of the Sordmaster's name caused a strange effect on the steed, for each time it had reacted the same way.

Murtagh lay weary on the back of the steed and hid his frozen face in its thick, sweaty mane.

'… Tornac … where are you? …' he cried out through a sore throat, causing the horse to slow down its galloping, reaching a vigorous trot.

For some time now he had left the main road, leading to and from the capital behind, not only from fear he may be spotted, but because he was no longer aware of the landscape in front of him; and he had loosened the bridle, allowing the runaway horse through ice-cold fields and the wilderness. And now the tired animal lingered more and more.

It was still the deep darkness of the night when he realised that the horse had stopped and he looked around him to see sparse trees, a small creek and low undergrowth, with frozen drops of moisture on the leaves. Instead of dismounting he rather slipped and fell on the ground and he stayed there, on all fours panting, his chest tired from the curious sobbing that had left him out of breath so many times.

And then the anger returned. Ragingly, he struck the ground with his fists and screamed with pain.

'Tornac! …'

A wet snout on his neck nudged his shoulder and then shuffled his hair; a soft whinny answered his ragged voice. And for the first time he noticed the foam dripping from the mouth of the horse. Its glossy coat was wet ... sweaty ... The young man suppressed the choking feeling that overwhelmed him. His horse … from now on his unique companion … he could not leave it in such a state in the middle of the cold night. He stood, and opening one of the saddlebags, he took a horse-blanket out of it and covered the steed. In the darkness he felt for its muzzle and touched his forehead on it. He gripped the long mane with both fists and hid his face there, feeling the warmth of the animal's body. He breathed deeply, allowing his lungs to be filled with the strong smell of the horse.

'Tornac …'

The same soft whinny was heard again. The same gentle nudge on his shoulder, the hot breath on his cheek …

In the sky above them, the raging wind swayed the rain-filled, menacing clouds towards the distant lake and the cold moonlight fell on the land. Among frozen shrubs and cold moisture dripping from the leaves of the trees, the man hugged tightly the neck of his horse.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

It was still dawn, the dawn of a cold, sleety day, when the servants woke up their young master. A man on his horse had appeared at the entrance of the great estate, claiming friendship with the lord of the land, demanding to see him at once and asking for a few days' shelter. The man was young, proud and despite the condition of his clothing, he seemed of a noble origin. His horse, a gray war steed, was mud-splattered and tired but one of the best breeds in the country. He had been permitted entrance – the guards had not dared to refuse him – and the servants had taken care of his horse and had escorted him to one of the rooms on the ground floor of the main residence; they had prepared a fire at the fireplace for him and a meal he hadn't touched, while they had gone to call for their master.

The young Lord Melker had recently inherited his father's estate and office in the King's court, and was dividing his time between the capital and his residence in the countryside. In Urû'baen he had made the acquaintance of the son of Morzan and a kind of friendship had been established between the two. He was astounded to see his young friend standing in the middle of the room. He knew that he was never supposed to leave Urû'baen's castle and the city.

'Murtagh! What has befallen you?' He had looked at his torn, bloodied clothes, his haggard face, the dark circles under his eyes. 'Bandits on the road? Have you been ambushed?'

'You could say that' Murtagh had replied briefly. And to his question of what had brought him out of Urû'baen, he had tersely replied 'King's business.'

'Have you been traveling alone?'

To this question his friend had just shaken his head and had murmured a few words about a lost companion. After that, he had been shown to his room and had been left alone to rest.

And now, early in the afternoon, he had come out of the room, just to go to the stables to find out that his horse was well fed, well curried, well treated.

Standing by one of his windows the young Lord Melker watched his friend returne from the stables.

'What does he want here?'

The voice made him swerve round to face his mother. Lady Melker was standing behind him, staring at the young man in the yard with a dark, sharp look. She had been informed by her maids of the guest's presence in the estate since early in the morning, as soon as she was awake, and she was eager to meet with him. But the guest had not ventured out of his room so far, and even hιs meal had been brought to him by a servant; or at least that was what her maids had reported to her.

Lady Melker never missed any detail concerning her home, her son's life or anything to her interest. The woman had given orders to her maids to keep an eye on the guest all the time, and, of course, everything concerning him so far had been reported to her. She had been informed of the improper timing of his coming, of his bloodied clothes, of his lack of escort. There was enough out of the ordinary about this arrival, to make anyone suspect. And Lady Melker was a suspicious type of woman.

The young Lord Melker looked at his mother's face very carefully. He was well aware that the woman befriended no one, unless she expected to gain a benefit from this relation. And he remembered very well that it was his mother who had insisted on his association with the son of Morzan in the first place. Probably, she expected him to curry favor with the King through this young man.

'Dear mother!' the young man slightly nodded to the woman, as she came to stand beside him, looking out of the window.

'He never leaves Urû'baen', she said. 'As far as I know, the King wants him to be around all the time.'

Her son gave her a sideways glance.

'He claimed to be traveling on the King's business'. He was aware of the suspicious nature of the woman. It was inevitable that she would interfere with this.

Lady Melker chuckled.

'I doubt it! His condition was not the proper one for a noble travelling on King's business'.' Her eyes glittered full of slyness.

'Let me remind you, my dear mother, that it was _you_ who insisted on my befriending one such as the son of Morzan' the young lord commented, the last spoken name holding a hint of contempt. Then, his gaze returned to the yard. 'After all, since he is my friend now, I have no reason to question him.'

Lady Melker stood annoyed, offended.

'There are no bandits from here to Urû'baen'. She looked angrily at him. 'Why have you accepted him, my son? Does the King know that he is here? And if something … improper is on, what will become of us?'

This conversation was cut short. The young guest had already come through the main entrance and the lords of the house, mother and son, heard him ascend the stairs towards his room. When a distant door was heard open and close again, Lady Melker turned to her son.

'A very good idea would be to be ready to travel to the capital tomorrow.'

The young lord sighed. He knew that once something had entered his mother's head, she wouldn't stop insisting on it, until the goal had been accomplished.

'As you wish, dear mother.'

After all, if the son of Morzan had not been involved in anything, there wouldn't be anything wrong in a brief visit to Urû'baen'. If he had been … then the King would had better be informed of his whereabouts. Lord Melker had been a happy young man so far. He didn't like any trouble around him.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The Astrologist rushed into the throne room holding in his hands the ancient celestial map half-wrapped and out of its protective, leather cylinder. Panic shaded the face of the old man, panic mixed with fear and upon his chest he was clasping his valuable heirloom, as if it was a little, unprotected child who needed his care.

The King was seated unmoving on his throne, and the Dragon was wrapped up in his enormous wings, probably asleep. Everyone in the palace knew that two nights ago terrible events had occurred in Urû'baen's throne room. That during all this time, the King had not retired to his royal quarters at all, he had neither eaten nor drunk, he had seen no one. His wrath, expressed through the Dragon's roars, had rumbled over the citadel for hours on end, and the menacing sounds had reached up to the highest tower of the castle. But, concerning himself and the news he carried, the Astrologist was certain that an exception would be made. The King would be eager to know about what he had to report to him. And the old man had insisted on this to the reluctant guards who had discouraged his entrance.

The old man fell to his knees in the presence of his Majesty and spread open the valuable map on the floor in front of the dais.

'My King, this is something you have to see with your own eyes to believe.'

The malevolent gaze of the King focused on the man before his throne and he glanced at the map; and there it remained petrified. The 'Warrior's' flame, having shifted a little farther from the 'Lion', was burning brighter than ever. And the 'Dragon's' flame, having doubled in size, and having burned its spot on the map – where sixteen years ago it had appeared and developed – was fast approaching the 'Lion's' constellation shining and glimmering, and leaving behind it a blackened path on the indestructible material.

The King's eyes shone with fiery sparkles. With a voice as hard as the hardest of steel, he asked:

'When did this happen?'

The Astrologist raised his hands in despair.

'Last night, your Majesty, a little before dawn.'

The King stood. He had spent all the previous day and night cursing and threatening, and now his dark eyes looked sunken in their sockets. Just before dawn he had calmed down, he and his Dragon and he had given orders to have the body of Tornac removed from the throne room. Since then, he had sat silent on his throne to think.

For some time now he had become aware of the existence of a new Dragon Rider and he had sent his servants northerly to investigate. The choice of the place had not been made due to the information of the person kept under custody in Gil'ead, but according to his Astrologist's suggestion. He was the one who had read the omens in the stars of the universe, he was the one who had suspected the identity of the 'Dragon', he the one who a few years ago – when he had taught the son of Morzan – had become assured of the identity of the 'Warrior' too.

The king growled in anger. The disobedient son of Morzan had enraged him. He was going to bring back this insubordinate brat. Murtagh did not have many choices in his life. Only under the shadow of his King could he consider himself safe. He had not regarded him so foolish as not to have realized this by now.

His royal Majesty, the King Galbatorix of Alagaesia tightened his fists.

'I am surrounded by incompetents!'

The Astrologist gave him a cautious look. He had advised his King many times; but most of them his Majesty had preferred to disregard him. But, considering the warnings of the guards concerning the events of the past hours, he chose not to comment. The King sat again on his throne and continued.

'The Shade was unable to extort the information requested from the person in Gil'ead. His methods had not worked. And I sent the Ra'zac to the north to seek the Dragon's egg and find out who possesses it. And what do they do? They burn the house and the relative of the suspect, rather than use him as a hostage. And as if that was not enough, they have become the reason that Brom, one of my worst enemies, carries the boy away, and no one knows where they are now.'

The Astrologist spoke cautiously.

'Your Majesty, the 'Dragon' is coming closer. As for the 'Warrior', I would recommend you not allow them to meet. Find the son of Morzan my King and bring _him_ back, so you can have _him_ all the time under your supervision. I repeat that _he_ and the 'Dragon' must never meet. It is written in the stars! Concerning the person in Gil'ead, my opinion is, as previously was, that it would be better if they accompanied her here under custody. In this way you will interrogate her yourself, and she will be unable to resist _your_ methods.'

For a while the King remained silent. Every time the Astrologist had counter proposed something, the King had always remained silent. He was giving the impression that he never considered what had been said. But the Astrologist knew very well that the King counted and measured even the slightest thing. The silence was interrupted by a slight grunt behind the throne and an enormous eye in the colour of lazurite opened and focused on the old man. The gloss of a fang and a talon sparkled. With slow steps the King descended the throne and approached a carved, wooden table to his right, with a silver bowl on it filled with some liquid. The Astrologist knew very well the use of that particular object in the throne room. When the King wanted to scry on someone …

His Majesty stood rigid in front of the bowl and the Astrologist dared to approach him. The King's hand passed over the liquid, ordering.

_'Draumr Kópa!'_

The old man craned his head and he saw the milky liquid take a silvery hue, like the surface of a mirror. He managed to discern a prone man with his fists raised up in anger, hit at the surface he was lying on, his hair covering his face and features. He heard his angry moan, before the image faded from his eyes. The King ended the spell at the same moment the heavy doors of the throne room half opened and one of the guards dared inside.

'Your Majesty,' with purportedly calm and formal voice the guard reported. 'His Excellency, Lord Melker, humbly requires an audience with your Royal Highness. He asserts that he brings significant news concerning Lord Murtagh.'

Sweeping the celestial map to his lap, the Astrologist withdrew between two alabaster pillars of the hall, paying full attention to the event. The King glared at the guard, making the man feel insecure and then he ascended the dais and sat on his throne.

'Let him enter!'

At a fast pace the young Lord Melker approached the throne where the King awaited him, and bent his knee.

'Your Majesty! I humbly pay my respects.'

The King looked carefully at the young man who, kneeling in front of his throne, waited patiently to be addressed. He was well aware of his acquaintance with the son of Morzan and he had approved of it from the beginning. Lord Melker's father had always been his loyal servant and an ardent supporter of his reign. He expected likewise from his son.

'You have news that interests me.'

It was a statement, not a question. The young lord stood and began to recount the events with every detail. During the time he related his story the King remained silent; he didn't stop him to address any questions to him. His posture remained grave and unreadable. Not even when Lord Melker finished recounting did he state anything. The Astrologist, half-hidden behind the pillars, was holding his breath. The 'Warrior' had been found; it remained now to bring back the insubordinate young man. His amazement was great when he heard the King order the young lord to continue hosting the son of Morzan, without him knowing that his Majesty had become aware of his hideout. The young lord was granted permission to stay for the next day, so as not to raise suspicions with a quick return. He bowed and left.

'Your Majesty,' the Astrologist dared to interfere with the silence and contemplation of the King. '_They_ have not yet met. Perhaps it would be wiser if ... It would be better, my King, to bring back the boy.'

The king gestured, annoyed.

'I have more important things to attend to than the son of Morzan. As far as I'm aware of his whereabouts, I will permit him to swallow his anger for his Swordmaster's death before I bring him back.' The King frowned, his hands, with skin the color of tarnished bronze, clenched on the sides of his throne like the claws of a predator. 'I've made this mistake and I admit it. I have been hasty to delegate tasks to the son of Morzan; and the youth was not yet ready for full obedience to me, like his father had been. Morzan would have done my will without any question.' He gripped tightly the side carvings where his hands usually rested. 'As for now, I must locate this other … _boy_. And the … treasure he carries.'

The Dragon growled cravingly behind the throne and the Astrologist flinched in fear. The King's eyes flashed dark, lazulitic sparkles.

'The Ra'zac!' he hissed. 'They have work to do!'

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Murtagh rubbed his horse to clean it with the currycomb. The steed nudged his shoulder whinnying slightly. Then, it kicked vigorously the ground with its right hoof, ready to canter.

'Hey, boy, I know you do not like being in this stable, but we have to stay here for a while.'

Murtagh scowled. Everything concerning his life had changed in a few hours. For a second time he had abandoned all he had considered to be 'home', any personal belonging, his habits, he had lost those few he had thought of as friends, Tornac ...

_…__ Tornac …_

He didn't like to be here either, but he had no other place to go. The morbid thought depressed him once again and he bit hard on his lip.

The terrible order he had been given and had not obeyed, the night's killing, Tornac's loss, his predicament due to his insubordination, had left him with an empty heart. And it was less the uncertainty of his future and the plight in which he found himself, but the Swordmaster's death that had caused him this permanent anger; a deep, suppressed rage that stemmed him from his core, threatening every moment to come to the surface and conquer his mind, leading him to madness.

The first few hours since he had reached this place he had not exited his room, but had stayed lying on the bed, face down, eyes full of emptiness, completely spent of emotion. And at times, the anger would rise in his chest choking him, and leaving him completely worn out. At these times, the only thing left for him to do was to beat the mattress with clenched fists, and call the Swordmaster's name in a muffled voice. And other times he was seated at the edge of the bed, the one and a half sword on his lap. And he was feeling guilty. Tornac had lost his life because of him! And as he fingered the blade, he could not but remember that the first blood that had ever stained this sword was Tornac's.

But later, he had tried to subdue his rage and force his brain to work. He was always proud of his square logic and restrained emotions, but what he had experienced the last few hours had left him shocked. The King had misled him, by making him believe in a lie. This accursed guard, the one he had bribed to leave the postern gate of the castle open, had betrayed him to the King. A cowardly soldier had killed Tornac from a distance, using his knife. The finest swordsman in all the Empire brought down by a knife in the back! And now, the only thing that was left to him was to try to survive. Thus, he would curb his anger, his pain, and all his emotions. From now on, he would trust no one.

On the very next morning after his arrival at this estate, the moment he was exiting the stables, he had met his friend and his escorts, ready to depart. 'For my lands, north-east of Urû'baen,' lord Melker had answered his questioning stare. 'I am sorry I have to go for a few days. This had been arranged and I expect to be back soon.' And the escort had exited the residence, leaving him standing alone on the wet stone slabs of the courtyard, in the cold, morning dew.

He didn't mind his friend's departure. Quite the opposite. He would not be obliged to follow the etiquette of the house, breakfasts, lunches, suppers, boring afternoons in a hall, the insipid conversation of his hostess. Most hours of the day he had stayed in his room, to abandon it only to come to the stables and see to his horse. And even here, the morbid thoughts never left him, only subsided, and he would taste rage, anger, pain, despair, emptiness of emotions. And now he felt devoid.

He patted the steed's neck with tenderness, and fed it a piece of candy he had saved for it in his pocket. It was the horse that had kept him from certain madness. Nevertheless, he felt empty. As he remembered, it was the first time in his life that he felt so empty.

He exited the stables to return to his room. At this very hour of the day, the courtyard was really busy. Servants and maids running for their errands, dogs and other small animals strolling around, merchants and providers with their carts and baskets were all mixed up in a continuous coming and going. Not wanting to see them or to be seen, he hurried inside the main residence to his room, oblivious to the fact that, standing on the balcony of her chamber, Lady Melker was watching him with cunning eyes.

The woman nodded knowingly. Since the previous evening, her son had communicated with her, using the help of a royal magician, to inform her of the King's orders concerning to this young man.

His Majesty had not divulged to the young Lord Melker that night's events. He had just instructed him to host the son of Morzan, to treat him as a welcome guest, to make him feel secure. But the entire palace knew by now of his defection. They all talked about his night desertion with the help of the Swordmaster, about their resistance to the guards who awaited them, about Tornac's killing. The servants always talked, and they had talked too much about it. And lord Melker had been informed of every detail concerning his young friend's nocturnal adventure. The guards – after their first scare about the consequences they might face for not being able to stop the young man from escaping – were talking with hatred against him, and were planning their revenge because of the bloodshed he had caused them; the servants, about a special cell that his Majesty had already given orders to be prepared, waiting to house the renegade once he was brought back; the maids, about the King's anger and wrath that he had taken out on his personal staff and belongings. Using his magic, the King had destroyed his rooms, and he had made the young man's personal servants suffer. And they were all scared. Lord Melker had seen on their faces the sheer, raw fear. He had heard whispers about the profaned bodies of the dead. And all of them had avoided looking him in the eye.

But his Majesty, the King, had given his orders, and Lady Melker, being a good royal subject, had treated her young guest with courtesy and generosity. She had no reason to be rude to him since the King had been informed. The son of Morzan was supposed to stay there and feel relaxed and secure and never suspect that his Majesty was aware of his bearings. She and her son had undertaken the task to report to his Majesty everything concerning him.

Lady Melker saw her young guest enter the house and in a while, she heard the door to his room open and close again. He was going to spend the rest of his day there, just as he had done the previous ones. The woman entered her room and gestured at the maid to close the balcony doors; the noise of the courtyard was annoying to her ears. Sighing she sat in front of her mirror and with the help of her maid she corrected her elaborate hairdo.

'What news, girl?' She fastened one loose curl of her light brown hair. Lady Melker was in her early forties and could be considered a good-looking woman. Oh! She had been beautiful once ... Even the King himself had praised her beauty.

Suspecting that her mistress waited for a compliment to feed her vanity, the maid gave a foxy smile.

'How beautiful hair you have, madam! How thick and bright!'

The satisfied glance lady Melker gave her through the mirror told her that she had guessed correctly, but now it remained to her to answer the question.

'Myrtil told me this morning that Tomlyn said he never eats meat. Tomlyn claims, he never eats enough. He said that the dishes are more half full than half empty.'

Lady Melker took a small vase filled with a rouge powder and carefully spread a small amount of it on her cheeks and lips. Since the first day of his arrival, she had asked for the help of her faithful magician – who lived in the estate – to brush the young man's mind, but he had only met with a strong, unbreachable wall. The son of Morzan had been well trained in protecting his innermost thoughts. So, the only method remaining was to keep a close and secret watch on his actions.

'Tomlyn said he never drinks wine either.' The maid blinked playfully. Her voice took a more mischievous tone. 'Myrtil watched him through the keyhole, while he was changing his clothes.' She giggled, hiding her lips under her palm. 'She said that … like this … he is very handsome.'

Her last statement caused her mistress' discomfort. The girl hadn't even blushed. She looked at her strictly, and nodded at her to go on.

'And during the previous night he had nightmares. He has been heard calling names … strange names.' The girl frowned. She leaned forward, closer to her mistress' ear. 'A man's name ... And he never goes out of his room. Only to visit the stables.'

The light giggle was repeated, and her mistress gestured at her to withdraw.

'Bring me my lacy shawl and hand me my silver fan, then go to fetch Myrtil.' Throwing one last satisfied glance at her mirror, lady Melker stood. 'It is time to pay a visit to our guest' she murmured. 'He has spent enough time alone in that room.'

She started to the exit, but then changing her mind she returned to her dressing table. She took the bottle of her perfume and slightly perfumed her neck, behind her ears. The giggle was heard again, even louder, and before she could say a thing to scold the girl for her levity, the maid rushed out of the room to do as she had been instructed and her mistress only had the time to glare at her back.

Lady Melker walked hastily through the cold corridors of the second floor, heading towards the room of her guest. The silver, ostrich feather fan in her hand was not suited to the freezing draft of the corridor, but lady Melker used this accessory every time she wanted to impress someone. The light whisper of the two maids behind her was reaching her ears, but she paid no attention to the excited girls.

She stood for a moment in front of the closed door and tried to listen to any noise she might catch from inside. When nothing was heard, she straightened her shoulders and hit lightly, but determinedly. In less than a few moments the door opened and the young guest appeared at the opening. His dark eyes sparkled with anger for the inconvenience, but when he saw who the annoying visitor was he gave his most courteous bow to the hostess.

'Lady Melker!'

'Good morning my Lord Murtagh!' The woman addressed him with urbane politeness, reaching blandishment. 'Since I did not have the pleasure of meeting with you earlier, I would like to be informed firsthand if you enjoy staying in our residence.' The silver fan opened, covering part of the woman's bosom. 'As you spend most of your time in your room, I am not so sure if you have been served as beseems your name and rank … if there is something that you would additionally like to have.' The fan closed, the feather lightly patting her rich bust, trying to capture the young man's attention. 'My dear son, who very unfortunately had to go for a few days' journey, would be very displeased if he found out on his return that you have not been treated as befits you.'

Lady Melker gestured at him, as if she would like to enter his room, but the young guest looked as though he had not understood and was standing in front of his door preventing her entry. He gave her another slight bow.

'I have been served very well, thank you madam. And there is nothing at all in addition I would like to have, more than what you have very kindly provided. Your hospitality is perfect to me.'

With one first look inside his room, Lady Melker noticed that everything was in perfect order. His bed was made and there were no personal items or clothing anywhere to be seen. A sword and a long bow were resting at one corner. The woman looked at his face very carefully, at those brown, sad eyes marked with dark circles. She sighed lightly, ignoring the slight giggle behind her. Young and ignorant, she thought.

'My dear Lord, if my maturity and experience as a mother could offer you some advice, please, accept it. It is not fitting for the golden youth to be isolated and melancholy.' She curtsied to him. 'Grief and youth are contrary concepts. Hear my advice and show yourself this afternoon to my parlour, where a couple of newly arrived actors are going to give a performance. Enjoy yourself, Lord Murtagh.'

'With all my respect, my Lady, I am in mourning for a very dear friend, whom I have recently lost.'

'My dear Lord, one mourning a friend so deeply, does not suit the beauty of their youth. And the spirit of a beloved friend would like to see those who had been dear to him do things matching their young age. So, I insist on your presence.'

The young man seemed reluctant for a while. Then, he bowed with consideration and answered.

'Very well, madam, I will attend your parlour this afternoon.'

Lady Melker curtsied again and left, followed by her two frivolous, empty-headed maids.

On that same afternoon, as he descended towards Lady Melker's parlour, he was feeling naked without his weapons. Insecure even inside the house, he threw sidelong glances at the empty corridors or glared at the passing servants. But he had not dared bring his sword to his hostess's parlour. The only thing he carried for his own protection was Morzan's silver-handle dagger which he usually carried in his boot. But on this special occasion he had shoved it into his belt, hidden among the folds of his tunic so as not to be seen. He knew that there was the least possibility of any danger against his life in here, but he trusted no one. He just hoped that, if needed, this dagger would be enough for his protection.

A big fire was burning in the fireplace, spreading its warmth around. Lady Melker waited for his arrival, lying lazily on a comfortable sofa. Her abundant hair was lifted, so as to offer a better sight of her soft, white neck, and she was dressed in a delicate lace bodice, which left her neckline ostentatiously naked. He wondered about her thin clothes. The weather was cold, too cold to justify such an attire, even within a lady's parlour. It was no wonder that she was seated so close to the fire.

'Ah, my Lord' she said in a playful mood and stretched her soft hand, which he just touched with the tips of his fingers, while bowing slightly. 'I'm glad you have heeded my advice. Our estate offers neither the pleasures and amusements of the court of his Majesty, nor the beautiful presences, to whom you must be accustomed to, but anyway, here it would be better for you than your melancholic room or the stables.' And she made room for him to sit on the couch beside her.

The excess of her smile, along with the last of her remarks, caused his eyes to flash with irritation, already beginning to repent that he had agreed to appear in her salon. Decidedly, he sat on a chair at some distance from his friend's mother. Her reference to Urû'baen and the King's court, had also stirred his anger.

'I'm not accustomed to many amusements, Madam. Back there, in the capital, I used to spend most of my hours in the training field or in the company of my books.'

The tone he had used referring to 'back there' would have given anyone, even the most ignorant, to understand that he never intended to return. Lady Melker smiled meaningfully. The arrogance of this young man was really great. She would like to tell him that a special cell had already been prepared to host him, once he was back. That the King had only to order his guards to have him escorted back. Maybe that way his impudence would subside, and he would be more condescending. For three days she had hosted him in her home offering everything to him, and he had preferred to spend his time in the stables with the horses instead of with her.

Lady Melker clapped her hands and a maid appeared carrying a tray with glasses, a bottle filled with red, sweet wine and confections. The manservant who accompanied her served the glasses and handed them to the hostess and her guest. She noticed that as soon as the young man took his own, he placed it on the small, nearby table without tasting it. The woman brought her glass up to her lips, drinking of the sweet liquid and closed her eyes with pleasure. A wine to delight the palate, one of the best harvest of their vineyard. She looked carefully at her guest's face. His dark, thoughtful eyes had already turned towards the fireplace, captured by the flames, and he made not even the slightest effort to be pleasant. The woman sighed slightly, without managing to make him notice even her sigh. She was not used to passing unnoticed, especially in her own home. She, who had been admired by counts and dukes and generals, even the King himself had praised her beauty. But she was obliged to tolerate this rough youngster with his harsh manners and entertain him, so that he would remain calm here, at least until the King decided his fate.

Lady Melker asked her maid to inform the actors that they were ready to watch the prepared performance. Earlier, at the one corner of her parlour, a makeshift tent had been readied, waiting for them.

A tall, gaunt man, dressed in loose, tawdry clothes made his entry with as glorious a style as he could muster, and bowed to them.

_'Gracious masters, you who have welcomed us in your manor, deign to watch our humble performance...' _

The young man's mind had already flown away and he was not watching. The fact that he had no place to go, a fact that more and more puzzled him, shouldn't stand in his way from now on. Yes, he was alone now that Tornac was lost. All his fortune was his horse and his weapons, along with his martial adeptness.

_'… __Open your ears! For who could possibly block them when loud Rumour speaks? I make the wind my horse, and ride it from the __ο__rient to the place where the sun sets in the west, describing the events taking place in the world …'_

What had his Swordmaster said when they were deciding to leave Urû'baen at the same night? _'Do not think about 'afterwards'. It's too early for this.' _But_'afterwards' _was already here; not so distant as it had seemed that morning.

_'… Why am I here?_

_King Galbatorix has won the war, and at Utgard Mountain, he has ended the fight against hi__s enemies__ by defeating Vrael and his Dragon, quenching the fire of the Riders with the opponents' own blood …'_

Did Tornac have a plan about '_afterwards'? _Where did he intend to hide after they had escaped? Which way to take? Would it be better to travel to the isolated villages of the north … or to the crowded western cities, by the sea? Staying within the territories of the empire seemed difficult, if not impossible. The risks for him would be great … to the South maybe, towards Surda? And, who would agree to give refuge to the son of Morzan? _The son of the slaughterer?_ Suddenly, the world was not as wide as he had thought it would be during the time he had lived locked in the castle, and was imagining himself outside those walls.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed lady Melker having turned all her attention to him. He understood that this shelter she provided for him was all that he could currently have, and he decided not to risk his fate, insulting the woman. So he tried to concentrate on the show. For the remaining of the hour, he was obliged to watch an insipid performance about the killing of the last leader of the Dragon Riders, by his Majesty, the King Galbatorix. The actor who played the King, a skinny man with scrawny face, stood on the platform shoes to look taller. A wide breastplate covered his chest, and he made a great effort to appear majestic, as befitted his role. The other one, a short, fat, bald man who acted as Vreil, did his best to seem ridiculous. At the moment of his death he cried, screamed and grovelled before the feet of the 'King', begging for mercy.

The coarse spectacle was disgusting. The show was not only boring, but also unfair. Nevertheless, he forced himself to a conventional applause at the end not even being sure if he managed to hide the sigh of relief that inadvertently came out of his chest. As soon as the actors exited, he stood up to leave too. But at that exact moment they heard noises from the entrance, and the servants announced to their lady the arrival of their master.

At a brisk pace, Lord Melker entered his mother's parlour, and kissed her brow tenderly.

'Ah, Murtagh,' he turned towards his friend 'how nice to find you here. My trip may have been short, but I carry a lot of great news' he said cheerfully.

They dined all together and then they sat in the parlour, talking until late. Murtagh listened more and only spoke to ask about some detail concerning Lord Melker's narration. And indeed, he was not sorry that he had remained in their companionship. The news his friend had carried was rather peculiar, or even impressive.

The Ra'zac, those monstrous servants of the King, who everyone tried to avoid, had appeared again in the capital, a place Lord Melker had stopped for a while on his way back from his northern property. And almost immediately, they had departed under a new command. Lord Melker didn't know where to; and on Murtagh's cautious questions concerning himself, the man seemed to have heard nothing. Obviously, the King had kept his insubordination a secret. But the most important piece of news was that rumors of a new Dragon Rider had been heard; rumours spreading around like wildfire; rumours that the King had tried to keep hidden, but they had flown throughout the city on the wings of the wind.

It was late when he withdrew to his chamber. But the decision was made. Upon his return, his friend had passed from Urû'baen. He had not mentioned the castle, but news like what he had carried, he could only have heard in the palace. Perhaps Lord Melker had spoken to someone of his presence in the estate. Maybe his presence here would reach the royal ears. And he could not risk it. He remembered Tornac's last words a moment before they exited the stables. _'…__what I care most for is your dear life__…' _the decision was already made. The Swordmaster was dead, but he would go on.

During the same night, at the small chamber that had been given to the actors to rest, the door was knocked loudly and persistently. The man who had acted as the King a few hours ago opened the door; and he greatly wondered to see one of the lords who had previously attended his performance.

'What can I do for you, master?' he said and bowed submissively.

The young man standing in front of him looked at him carefully in the eye. Now that the man was not dressed in his breastplate and the platform shoes, his height was that of an ordinary man. He was gaunt without his beard, his cheeks sunken and he looked starved.

A silver coin was the payment for his trouble; and after that, with evident pleasure he stripped off some clothes of his vulgar performance. Beards and wigs and a beggar's clothes were wrapped and hidden in leather saddlebags along with valuable weapons and quality clothing, packed alongside Tornac's precious silver cup, with the copper maple leaf inlaid on it.

The very same night and without anyone realising he was going, not even the servant constantly entrusted on spying on him – who had fallen asleep at the back of the corridor – Murtagh left the estate of his loyal friend Lord Melker, never to be back again.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The King was restless. He had spent most of the night turning in his bed, trying to sleep in vain. And when he had decided that there was no meaning in trying, he had pushed aside the welter, stood up and had dressed; then he had scried the son of Morzan. He had seen the young man alone on his horse, galloping in the middle of the night and he had known something was wrong. The boy was escaping his grip again. Thus, surprised, he had ascended the highest tower of his castle to see his Astrologist.

'My King, the stars had suggested that you should have brought him here' the old man dared. 'The 'Warrior' is going to meet the 'Dragon'. Eventually, there will be consequences because of this meeting.'

He gave a cautious glance at his King. His Majesty had crossed his hands on his chest and had approached the small window, looking down at his city. For some time now he had stood there in silence, the strong wind blowing on his face and shuffling his hair. When he turned towards the old man, his lips had been twisted with the strangest of smiles.

'This rebellious son of Morzan, he reminds me of Morzan himself when he was young, even younger than his son. He had rebelled against the Riders to help me.' The King seemed amused.

The Astrologist was aware of his thoughts. He would like the son of Morzan to lead him to the 'Dragon', whom he still didn't know where to find. And, of course, to the … treasure he travelled with. But the old man had his objections about this. He nodded knowingly; once again his King had ignored his advice.

'Dras-Leona, your Majesty. The stars have spoken!' He included in this last sentence all the threats of an obscure future, and he folded his precious map, placing it in its leather case.

The King's eyes flashed. Time had come to arrange a visit to Dras-Leona, after he had sent the Ra'zac there, to make arrangements to the city for his arrival. The Ra'zac, who would have had executed his first command by now. His previously strange smile turned into a grin full of malice.

The raging wind, blowing through the valley, caused the cold face of the moon to hide behind changing shapes, dark clouds. The man on the galloping horse was a lonely traveller on the wide road, heading from Urû'baen to Dras-Leona. He had risked travelling almost casually because of the hour of the night, as well as of the freezing cold that would have kept any possible traveller in the sheltered accommodation they could meet on their way.

The man was in a hurry. Now and then, he threw cautious glances behind his back and around him. He had left the Ramr river to his right and on a curve of the road, he restrained the bridle of his war-horse reducing the animal's rush. For a moment he thought that dawn was about to break; and this puzzled him, for he knew it was still the middle of the night, and many hours were needed until dawn. But only for a moment, as he was still heading towards the southwest, and what he had thought of as the east was placed wrongly. Breathing hard he stopped the horse.

_Gods above … this must be …_

He clenched his fists biting his lips, and looking angrily around him like a cornered wolf. He dismounted and withdrew with the horse to a secluded place among some trees on the roadside, panting hard. If the fire was still so big, then the soldiers should be near. He calculated the days in his mind. Soon it would be the dawn of the fourth day since he had left Urû'baen.

He withdrew more deeply into the trees, seeking their shelter. Heading towards this direction, he had not reckoned with the fact that the road passed from … _there._

_'You do not have to see this, since you refused to do it.' _A voice said mockingly in his mind._'You were not the one who gave the order.'_

He found a sandstone hill and once he had picketed his horse to some undergrowth, he climbed to the hilltop to have a better look around. The horizon, within less than four hours travel, shone brighter than the brightest dawn. The fire was the biggest he had ever seen.

_It must be the whole town … gods above … the whole town …_

And to his right, in almost half the distance, the small fires of a camp shone by the main road.

_… the soldiers …_

If he did not want to be captured and remain free, he had to move carefully and through the wilds.

He sat on a big stone on the hilltop. _'There', _was a place he did not like to go. On the other hand, he could wait here hidden, until the soldiers left … or take another direction … anything, but this. He covered his face with his palms.

_'You don't have to go there …' _the voice in his mind mocked him again.

_'You don't have to go there' Tornac had said. It was one day after his fifteenth birthday. A day after this bloody day, the day that his youth had ended. It was the day of Aldon's funeral. But he wanted to go, although the funeral was outside the castle, in the city's cemetery. And, very strangely, though Tornac had disapproved, the King had permitted it; but only after he had sent half of his guard along with him. Aldon was still under-age. He was not yet sixteen, and thus unmarried. He would travel to the kingdom of Death, without having known the soft touch of a woman. His body belonged to the daughters of the Netherworld to be his brides. His younger sister, a girl of thirteen years of age, was holding his wedding crowns, made of thin laurel branches entwined with lemon blossoms, which she had kept after the funeral laced together with a white ribbon. The girl had stood in front of him and had looked at him in the eye with contempt. 'Same marriage to you too' she had cursed him, placing her brother's crowns on his hair and spitting at his feet._

He descended the hill with a heavy heart. If he kept a steady trot through the wild, at about morning he would be … _there._

A pack of angry dogs waited for him at some distance from the town, with their hackles up. The horse neighed and kicked the air with its front legs scaring the animals which hurried to disappear. Only one dared to follow, running along with them and barking raggedly for a while; a big, brown wolfhound which tried to attack him, but the horse kicked against it and the dog yelped and ran scared.

Two long lines of stakes with burned human bodies fastened to them, welcomed the newcomer at the entrance of the town. Crows were flying in the sky above a pile of slaughtered women and children in the middle of the main square and still smoking, collapsed timbers of the burned houses were all he could see … as well as the wooden billboard among the ruins of what once had been the market, written with blood on it:

**_'Here stood Can_****_t_****_os, destroyed in retribution for the murder of His Majesty's loyal soldiers, never to be rebuilt'._**

Trying to stifle his need to vomit, he closed his eyes and bit his lip until he tasted blood in his mouth. Both his fists tightened on his horse's reins.

_… Who could have given the order? …_

And then …

_… It was not me … _

The strong wind rekindled the embers and stuck ashes and pieces of charcoal on his face.

**_… It was not me! …_**

He turned abruptly so as not to look at the slaughtered and the burned bodies and his gaze focused on the ground. Instinctively, he began to examine the tracks that could be seen there … too many military boots, marks of horseshoes, some animals which the army had drawn with them as loot. And …

_… __what __is __this? … _

Yes, he had seen those marks before … these abhorrent remains on the soil.

_… __Ra__'__zac__! __… _

The marks of their beasts which carried them to various parts of the empire, to execute the orders of _His Majesty. They_ had given the terrible order. Thus, the total destruction could be explained.

He jumped down from his horse and began to examine the trampled soil in greater detail. The traces had been partly extinguished, but what had been left of them was enough for him to detect the direction the beasts had followed. Southwest. Dras-Leona! A grimace twisted his lips and his eyes narrowed. He clenched his fists until his nails dug in his flesh.

_… __Monsters ... __Demons! ..._

He turned abruptly towards the town, drew his sword and raised it along with his clenched fist.

'I will revenge!' he swore.

He stood against the wind which stained his clothes and hair with ashes coming from burned bodies and houses. His so far smothered rage flooded him like fiery lava and poured into an angry cry that escaped his throat.

'I will have my revenge!'

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**A/N :** Thanks for reading.


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